


Forbidden Roman(ce)

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Roman Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is also so in love, Comfort, Crowley is so in love, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Family Secrets, Fluff, Forbidden Romance, Friends to Lovers, Human AU, M/M, Minor Violence, Misconceptions, References to Sex, Secret Relationships, ancient rome au, some Outsider POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: The death of Crowley’s uncle brings a new arrival to his villa: namely, Aziraphale, the servant who had nursed his uncle through the last days of his life. Crowley takes him in, but has to ask himself: how much does this newcomer really know about his family?More importantly, does it matter?(Good Omens Ancient Rome Human AU)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley, Ineffable Husbands - Relationship
Series: Good Omens AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 251
Kudos: 626
Collections: Amazing Good Omens, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Inheritance

Aziraphale had spent the last decade caring for a very elderly nobleman, but this carefully cultivated routine was about to come down around him in tatters. Life as a household servant was hardly glamorous, but it had been quiet these last few years. The home he'd lived in was small, for a rich man's house, with precious few staff and no family living with him, giving Aziraphale a relatively agreeable quality of life. Now the master of the house had passed away, his whole estate and all his belongings - his slaves included - were being left to his last living relative: his nephew, Crowley Antonius. 

He only had a few hours to scrape together his belongings before being bundled into the back of a horse-drawn wagon along with the rest of the valuable contents of the house. He ducked his head as the cart trundled along the streets of Rome, between the crowds and through the thick, hot air. He felt like a public spectacle. He looked down at his hands, fiddling anxiously with his clothes, until the roadside turned from city to countryside. With the cleaner air ruffling his clothes, he finally lifted his head, allowing himself a flicker of a smile. He’d always liked the countryside. It was like a patchwork of green and yellow silk, the wind rippling the surface like a shimmer of sunlight on a pond. Soon, Rome vanished from view, and his new home loomed over him far sooner than he was prepared for. 

Crowley's villa was larger and more lavish than his uncle's, set in a quiet, weather-sheltered spot amongst the rolling fields. One well-paved road ran from the land out into the Mediterranean countryside, connecting the white building to the rest of the world. All the other slaves from the old house had been discarded along with the rest of the property, but not Aziraphale. For some reason, he had been kept in the family. He assumed (correctly) that it was a way of thanking him, indirectly, for the many years he'd dedicated to maintaining Crowley's uncle's failing health. Staring at the sprawling white complex, steeled himself, and hopped down to the dusty ground. 

A woman in plain cotton clothes had been waiting by the door, and came to meet him as he approached. "You must be our new addition to the house," she said. She was clearly a servant herself, too, dressed simply with greying hair, pulled haphazardly back into a functional up-do. "My name is Augusta. I'm the eldest of the servants here."

"My pleasure," he replied, adjusting his grip on the paltry cloth bag of possessions containing all he could honestly call his own. "My name is Aziraphale."

"Master Crowley told me you were coming. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone before we start to unload the cart," she said, taking him around the outside of the villa to a side door. It led down into a dark stairwell, with flickering lights at the foot of the stairs. His brow furrowed.

The basement room was carved unevenly from the earth, reinforced by greyish stone. Stray pieces of straw and dry grass littered the edges of the room, especially beneath the low-standing beds. Each one had a thin mattress and a blanket. It dawned on him that this must be the servant's quarters, and his stomach flipped. His old room had been shared, too, but at least it had been above ground.

"Everyone, this is Aziraphale," she announced to the room. He was fixed with a mixture of smiles and jaded stares. 

"Hello," he said awkwardly, with a small wave.

"This is Cato, Philo and Cassius," she continued, gesturing to the three younger men sitting along one wall. They each gave him a curt nod, with the bearded man at the end returning his wave. Moving along, she pointed to the very young girl - who couldn't have been older than seventeen - sat cross-legged on one of the beds. "And this is Octavia, our youngest."

"And you can keep your hands off her, before you start getting any thoughts in your head," one of the men - the olive-skinned man named Cato - spoke up fiercely, with the other two backing him up with a firm glare.

Aziraphale jumped, a slightly taken aback. "I - I wasn't thinking anything of the sort," he stuttered, scandalised, fiddling meekly with the bag in his hands and sending a helpless glance toward Augusta. 

She only smiled lightly. "Don't mind them. Octavia is the baby of the house," she said, her aged and weathered face reflecting her gladness. Octavia herself only rolled her eyes. "We've all been anxious to meet you. With only the five of us to cook and clean for the whole villa, we've become very accustomed to our own status quo. We're like family."

"Oh of course, I wouldn't dream of disturbing it," he said reassuringly, before anxiously turning his mind to the work she'd mentioned. "How many people live in the villa?" 

"One," Philo said. He had hair so dark it was almost black, and a full beard to accompany it. He seemed to be the eldest of the men there, though he could only have been in his mid thirties. "Master Crowley Antonius and that's it."

"No family?" he said, shamelessly surprised. "I seemed to remember he was rather - erm - advanced in years, so to speak."

"No older than you," Octavia said with a shrug. She was a classic picture of Italian beauty, with sun-browned skin and pitch-dark eyes. "Master Crowley spends his time alone. He hardly talks, hardly eats... It's no surprise he never married."

"Octavia! Mind your manners," Augusta cut in sharply, wagging a finger. Aziraphale almost smiled; he could already guess who the matriarch among them was. With a sigh, she turned back to him. "She isn't terribly wrong, though, I'm afraid. The master of the house is very withdrawn. He likes his peace and quiet - he hardly goes into the city for that reason alone, I'm sure."

"Not much for conversation, then, is he?" he guessed.

"You can try, but there'll be hell to pay. Don't speak unless he addresses you first, that seems to be the rule," Cassius said, leaning back against the wall with a surly expression. He was thick-set, with calluses over his hands that spoke of heavy manual work. "He's not a cruel master, but he has a foul temper. If you aren't performing, he'll throw you to the street to make an example of you."

Augusta swatted him on the arm as she passed him by, gathering a fresh blanket from the corner. "We ought to be welcoming him, not frightening him," she said.

"He should know. We've lost people before just because they disappointed him - don't you remember when he found a spot on the sheets?" Philo said with a shudder. "Poor Flora. She didn't stand a chance."

"She was lazy," Cassius muttered under his breath. Cato gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs and a harsh look. "What? It wasn't the first thing she'd done wrong."

Augusta brought the blanket over to the spare bed by the second staircase at the far end of the room, draping it over. "The things to take away from this, Aziraphale, is that you'll do fine if you follow our lead. We've each been here for years with little trouble," she said, straightening out the blanket. "It's true that Master Antonius has a bad temper, but he isn't unreasonable. He provides us with everything we need, he isn't violent, and he's never asked for anything indecent from us."

Aziraphale was relieved to hear that. It wasn't uncommon for the heads of households to keep their servants as concubines - male or female - but you could never be certain whether you were really safe, unless you were picked. He himself had never been chosen for anything of the sort, thankfully, and that was the one thing he'd been especially anxious of when he'd lost his old master. Then again, he supposed he'd be too old to be desirable to anyone these days, anyway. 

Crowley wasn't unmoved by his uncle's death. He'd liked the old man, for all his flaws, far better than he'd liked his father. He'd made the effort to visit him now and then, when he could spare the time, but never stayed long. Some part of him regretted that now. Not that he'd show it; he'd keep the same detachment he always had, assimilate the wealth his uncle had left behind, and wait out his grief behind closed doors. 

He kept one thing from the old house - or rather, one person. He'd seen his uncle's slaves in passing plenty of times and never given them much attention, but his personal servant had stayed in his mind. He couldn't place why. At first he'd thought it was his appearance. The servant was pale and blue-eyed, with bright blond hair that would catch any roman's eye from a mile off. In short, he was a very unusual sight in Italy, like a single silver coin amongst a pile of bronze. Beyond that, he'd spent years quietly caring for Crowley's uncle. Crowley didn't count himself as a particularly nice man (though that didn’t mean he wasn’t), but it felt unnecessarily cruel to abandon such a loyal servant. Who knew what would happen to him under a different master, especially with such an exotic appearance? He'd be safer in Crowley's villa, he was sure.

He first saw the new servant the morning after his arrival, sweeping the paving slabs clean of dust just outside the front entrance. He was very absorbed in his work, humming a short tune on loop as he went. He didn't notice the approaching footsteps behind him until Crowley cleared his throat.

He jumped, gripping the broom with both hands and spinning around. "Oh! Hello," he said, with a friendly smile. Crowley looked him up and down for a moment without speaking, trying to place what was so different about this one.

"Hi," he finally replied, stalking up to stand beside him and look out at the sun-kissed landscape rolling out in every direction from the villa. He did his best to play it cool. "You're new here."

"Um, yes..." he said, looking skittishly between Crowley and the landscape. He wondered if he was missing something. This was the first time he'd seen him up close, and he was surprised to see the deep red colour of his hair. Much like his own, it was a rarity in this part of the world. 

"Do you have a name?" he asked dryly, after an expectant pause. 

"Oh! Yes. It's Aziraphale," he said, bowing his head slightly. 

"I seem to remember seeing you now and then, in my uncle's house. Did he... treat you well, before he passed?" he said in something approaching an agreeable tone, seemingly unfamiliar with the art of small talk.

"Yes, yes, very well. He was a good man, certainly, and I was terribly sad to see him go," he said, fixing Crowley with a sympathetic look that made his skin crawl. He wasn't quite sure it was an unpleasant sensation, though. 

"Hm,” he said. He didn’t respond for fear he’d stutter.

"He spoke very highly of you, you know," he continued, to Crowley's immense surprise. Slaves didn't usually speak so freely to their masters, in his experience. Aziraphale leaned on the broom slightly, looking wistfully out at the fields. "Many times when I was attending to him, he'd tell me stories about his family. He said you were a very curious child, always bothering your poor mother with questions."

His face twitched slightly. Aziraphale was oblivious, still entrenched deeply in the past. "Keep that to yourself," he said sharply, snapping him out of his reminiscing. "The last thing I want is you spreading tall tales about me in the servant's room."

"I - I would never!" he said, edging away from him sheepishly.

"See that you don't," he said harshly, turning and vanishing into the villa again. Aziraphale watched him go, pursing his lips, slightly irritated with himself. He must have overstepped some sort of boundary. Crowley hadn’t seemed unfriendly, at least not until then.

"Well... that went down like a lead balloon," he murmured to himself, tutting, and continued to sweep. 

Crowley was consumed with worry. What had his uncle gone and told his hand-servant? In his final days, his verbal filter had started to decay, and he didn’t always seem to know what was happening. How much did Aziraphale know? Could he be trusted? He set his jaw tightly as he leant back across his fainting couch while Augusta laid out his evening meal. The sun was beginning to go down over the villa, casting the white stone in shadows and dulling the colours of the rich cloths on the sofas and walls.

"Augusta," he said after a long silence. 

She looked up, surprised to hear him talk. "Yes, sir?”

"Aziraphale. What do you think of him?" he asked, scratching idly along his neck and attempting to seem nonchalant. 

"W - well, he's only been here for a day, sir. It wouldn't be fair to say," she said evasively. Crowley's expressions were notoriously hard to read. Was he looking for an excuse to get rid of the newcomer? She already felt the urge to protect him from being abandoned - or worse, sold.

"Fair? I didn't ask for fair. I asked for your opinion," he said petulantly. From the tone of his voice, she could tell he didn't want to have to ask again.

"He seems hard-working, and friendly. I think he will make a good addition to the household," she said, pouring out a glass of wine and placing it beside him. 

"Is he honest?" he asked, staring at the ceiling. 

"I... I imagine so," she said, baffled.

"Chatty?" 

"Somewhat, but he isn't boisterous. I can speak to him if he's bothered you, sir," she said worriedly. This was bizarre. Crowley never took interest in new slaves; the most recent one to arrive had been Octavia, and she'd settled into the villa with almost no comment whatsoever from him. 

"No. It's fine," he said, reaching for a piece of food. "You lot eat at the same time as me, right?"

"Yes, always," she said, finally able to give a direct answer.

"I imagine conversation is good at mealtimes," he said idly, examining his nails. "You don't often have time to sit down as a group, I imagine."

"I suppose," she confirmed. 

He hummed thoughtfully. "All right. You can go."

She gave a respectful bow, and hurried from the room. His questions made her uneasy. Perhaps it was just because Aziraphale was part of his inheritance, and he wanted to get an idea of his personality. That was an optimistic train of thought. Or maybe he was looking for a reason to get rid of the unwanted addition to the house - but if that were the case, surely he would have turned him away along with the rest of the slaves from his uncle's house. Idly, she wondered what Crowley had actually done with those slaves. She hoped they were okay. More to the point, she hoped that Aziraphale would be okay.

Aziraphale was starting to like his new life. He got along well with Philo especially, though Cassius was still an enigma to him. He seemed distant and standoffish, preferring to spend his time managing the small allotment outside and avoiding household tasks whenever he could. Cato was learning to cook from Augusta, and Octavia sometimes came to help. The young girl was sharp and stubborn, but she was already starting to look up to Aziraphale. He was the second-oldest of them all, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't starting to think of her as a niece or daughter. 

His bed was at the foot of the staircase leading up into the house. It wasn't the nicest or the most comfortable place to sleep, but in the warm weather it wasn't such a problem. He often sat there after he'd completed his work for the day, cooling off and listening in to the conversation between the others. Stories were his greatest joy, in any form he could get his hands on, even if they were only about the tasks of the day. He was starting to learn that Augusta was the leader, without doubt; she divided the work for the day between them all, and her plans only changed on Master Crowley's word. Usually, the jobs rotated between them all, until the day that Augusta came down the staircase with an unsettled look.

"Aziraphale," she said, drawing his attention. "Master Antonius says that you will be serving him his meals from now on."

"Permanently?" he said, sharing a perplexed glance with Cato.

"It appears so," she said, brushing her hair back. She pursed her lips, thinking back to the strange questions he'd asked about Aziraphale a few days before. "Octavia is plating everything up in the kitchen. You ought to go help her."

He nodded, heading up the stone steps and making the sharp turn into the kitchen. It was a small room with a hole in the tiled ceiling, through which the hearth breathed smoke. Octavia was piling a collection of small plates and bowls onto a wooden tray, and looked up briefly as he came in.

"Hey. Augusta said you're taking this through from now on," she said, holding out the tray for him. 

"Ah, thank you my dear," he said with a kind smile. He carefully took the tray, and she set the jug of wine onto it as an afterthought.

"Make sure you don't drop anything. The quicker you get the meal served, the sooner you can come down and have dinner with the rest of us," she said cheerily.

"I'll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, dear," he reassured her, taking the tray out of the kitchen and making his way toward the triclinium. 

Crowley was already waiting there, lounging on one of the long sofas beside the table. Aziraphale gave an apologetic smile, setting the tray down gently and beginning to lay out the food. It was true, Crowley ate far less than a typical rich man would. Looking at the way his black toga dipped and peaked attractively over his thin frame, he shouldn't have been surprised. The rich, expensive fabrics complimented his figure, subtle textures reflecting back the soft lamplight like serpent’s scales. Crowley cleared his throat. With flush of embarrassment, Aziraphale was struck with the realisation that he'd been staring shamelessly at him. He set out the dishes a little more quickly, hoping to flee from the room and try to live down the humiliation. He’d been cooped up with only an elderly man for company for many years, and he must have forgotten how to keep his eyes to himself around handsome men.

He held the empty tray to his chest, smiling awkwardly and hoping he’d forgotten already. "Will that be all?"

"Hm, not sure yet. You can stay for while," he said, picking up some meat from the plate closest to him.

Somewhat surprised, he nodded, taking a respectful step backward. He stood by the open window, enjoying the coolness rolling in from the hills as evening drew in. He tried to stand still. Before long, he began to fidget in place, wondering when he might be dismissed. The others were probably worried about where he was. Augusta was never usually detained in the triclinium for so long, and at this rate, he was going to miss dinner entirely.

... which was exactly the point. Crowley's paranoia had fully taken root since his talk with Augusta; he hated the thought of Aziraphale running his mouth over dinner, spilling his secrets and spreading rumours about his family... although he supposed they weren't really rumours if they were true. In any case, there were some things he never wanted to become common knowledge. So, from now on, he'd decided that Aziraphale would not eat at the same time as the others. By the time he was allowed back downstairs, the conversation would have died down, they would be settling into bed, and he himself would be too hungry to take a pause to speak between mouthfuls. Genius.

That is... until a noise disturbed his thoughts. It was a low grumble. He lifted his head with a frown, wondering what it was. Aziraphale gulped, staring at his feet. The noise sounded again.

"Is that you?" he asked, twisting around.

"It is, I'm afraid," he said sheepishly, ducking his head. His stomach gurgled again, louder this time. "I haven't eaten, you see."

He blew out a long breath through his nose. His conscience began to gnaw at him, and it was almost as annoying as the sound of Aziraphale’s belly. He leant forward, grabbing a cloth and beginning to pile small bits of food onto it. He picked it up, proffering it in his direction.

"Take it," he said shortly. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, glancing back and forth as if he wasn't quite sure that Crowley was speaking to him. "Take the food. Eat."

"Oh - thank you," he said, suddenly beaming as he took the package. Crowley forced a scowl onto his face, almost embarrassed by the unapologetic show of gratitude. He grunted, and kept eating. At least now, he'd have the quietness to think.

He got a few more bites through the meal before another noise disturbed him. Aziraphale has adjusted his position slightly, standing behind him, and tucking into the small amount he'd been given. With each mouthful, he hummed quietly in pleasure. Curious, Crowley adjusted the position of the wine jug so Aziraphale's reflection stood in the metal. For a moment, he entirely forgot his own meal and just watched him eat. It was... therapeutic, almost, to see someone enjoying their food so deeply. Aziraphale's eyelids were shut for most of the time he was chewing, and occasionally his tongue would swipe over his lips. When he was done, he dabbed the edges of his mouth daintily with the cloth, giving one last pleased groan. He finally came back to himself again, and noticed that Crowley hadn't moved in a while. Feeling as if he'd somehow been caught, Crowley quickly reached for a piece of bread and bit into it. He'd given Aziraphale a piece, too, but whatever divine flavour he'd found in the slice, Crowley couldn't locate it. In many ways, he envied him for that. Food had never been one of the great pleasures in life for him. 

Octavia kept looking toward the staircase as they ate their meal, her face creased with worry. It was strangely quiet in the servant's' room, for a mealtime, with each one of them feeling the absence sit heavy in the room. They'd waited a while for him, but it had soon become clear that for some reason, Aziraphale wasn't coming back anytime soon. 

"I don't hear anything," she said in a small voice, her eyes trained on the archway leading up into the villa. They had finished eating, with a bowl of food sitting on Aziraphale's bed, quickly going cold. "Do you?"

"What are you expecting to hear?" Cassius said gruffly, repeatedly tying knots in a piece of straw. He always liked to occupy his hands somehow. Her wide-eyed stare reflected back a thousand worries that were too awful to say.

"Best not to speculate," Augusta spoke up authoritatively. It was her place to worry about the other servants of the house, not theirs. "Master Antonius will have his reasons. Aziraphale is almost certainly fine."

As if to answer her question, a set of footsteps began to descend the steps. Everyone sat up, holding their breaths. To their relief, a familiar round face appeared in the dimly lit room, smiling but clearly exhausted. "Hello," Aziraphale said. "Terribly sorry I'm late."

"Aziraphale, what took so long?" Philo said, frowning at him, scanning his face and neck for any sign of bruises. "You must be starving."

"Well, I couldn't help it. Master Crowley told me to stay, in case he needed anything more," he explained, taking the bowl from his bed and settling down on the mattress. "He didn't, but he only dismissed me when he was finished, and then I had to clear the table."

"He's never done that before," Cato commented, seemingly unconcerned. "Maybe he likes you."

"I can't imagine he does," he said, tucking into his bowl of food. It was a sort of porridge, which had thickened considerably in the time it had spent stagnating on his bed. He'd never had much of a problem with it before, but having tasted the fine food from Crowley's table... it seemed so much more underwhelming. He decided not to mention it. He didn't want to seem like he was gloating.

"How was he? Civil?" Augusta asked. She was very suspicious about Crowley's behaviour; it was odd, far too odd... 

"Yes, he was fine. Quiet, just eating," he said with a shrug. He finished his bowl quickly, and put it aside without bothering to scrape it clean like usual. He wasn't as ravenously hungry as he might have been thanks to the snack he'd been given earlier. "I should like to get to bed now, I think. I've been on my feet since before sundown."

"Sleep well, Aziraphale," Octavia said, seemingly now content that he was safe and sound. There was a general murmur of goodnights, and everyone began to settle down on their beds. The straw in the mattresses crunched slightly as they lay down, and Augusta leaned up to dim the oil lamp on the table beside her bed. As the light faded, she looked across at the white-clothed figure on the bed near the stairs. For some reason, Aziraphale had caught their master's interest, and she only hoped that Crowley wasn’t planning anything nefarious.


	2. Just Between Us

Aziraphale was always hungry by the time Crowley was halfway through his meal. It became habit, for Crowley to set aside a small parcel of food to tide him over until he was dismissed. That was fine. As far as he could tell, his plan to keep Aziraphale from gossiping with the others about him was working, even if it was just a precaution. What bothered him more was the guilty pleasure he'd been taking in watching Aziraphale enjoy the food, always in the reflection of the wine jug. The reflection was distorted, frustratingly stretched across the curved surface, and he could never bring himself to look over his shoulder. He didn’t want to unnerve him. 

Eventually, he cracked. One morning, he found Cato outside, about to help Cassius with the allotment. "Hey. You, Cato," he called from the doorway.

"Yes sir?" he said, straightening up and breaking off his conversation.

"I want you to start making larger meals for me in the evening," he said. He did his best to seem nonchalant about the whole thing. 

Cato raised his eyebrows slightly. "Erm - how much more, sir?"

"Double," he said, already turning away to go back inside. The heat was oppressive, almost tangible in the air. His pale skin dealt poorly with the sun; it had been one of the most irritating problems of living near Rome. Sunburn would only draw attention to his appearance, and that was the last thing he wanted when he'd need to head into the city soon on business. 

Aziraphale, for his part, was just irritated to hear that Crowley had doubled his food order, and that he now had to make two trips to and from the kitchen. He berated himself for it on his way back to the kitchen. Most noblemen ate so much that several slaves had to make more trips than this... He’d grown lazy in his old age. When he laid out the last plate on the table, he leant the tray against the wall and took up his usual spot beside the window. He didn’t need to be told anymore. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere soon. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley said. "Come here. Sit."

Perplexed, he edged forward, looking at the sofa opposite him. He was gesturing at it. It certainly seemed like he was telling him sit there, but... he was a slave. Slaves simply did not sit at their master's table. It didn't happen.

"What's taking so long? You know how a chair works," he said irritably, gesturing more insistently to the sofa. "Sit down."

He hesitantly lowered himself onto the sofa, not quite sure what was happening. His posture was straight and formal, his hands resting in his lap as he waited for any input. 

"Eat."

He frowned. "Sorry?" he said, starting to fiddle with the white fabric of his tunic. 

"Eat the food," he said slowly, dragging out the sentence condescendingly. He took a piece of bread for himself, taking a bite as if to illustrate his point. "You usually eat from my table anyway. You may as well take your full meal here."

Aziraphale pursed his lips, his eyes flicking between Crowley and the table. He licked his lips, seriously tempted, but couldn't allow himself to give in just yet. "But... the others," he said quietly. Crowley looked up enquiringly from his cup. "It doesn't seem fair."

"This is my house. I decide what's fair," he said firmly. He berated himself internally when Aziraphale flinched at his tone. He took a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and softening his voice. "Just don't tell the others. What they don't know won't hurt them, eh?"

He watched him as the internal conflict played out over his face. The food was still hot, and the smell of roasted meat and sauces dominated the room. He was tempted. To help him along, Crowley picked up a square of cheese, making a show of savouring the bite, even imitating Aziraphale's own contented humming that he'd heard so often. That did it. He smirked triumphantly as Aziraphale began to help himself to the meat on the plate nearest to him. He didn't lie back like Crowley did, staying rigidly sat up on the sofa, but he seemed to enjoy the food on offer as much as he had ever enjoyed the small napkinful he'd been given before.

"Try the dormice," Crowley said, unable to help himself from smiling at his relish. He moved the plate of mice toward him. "They're a favourite of mine. I eat more of them than a snake could manage."

"A mouse? How novel," Aziraphale said, picking one off the plate. It was hardly recognisable as the furry creatures he'd often had to chase from the kitchen with a broom; its flesh was browned and rolled in poppy seeds. He gave it a cursory sniff.

"It won't bite you, you know," Crowley teased. 

He laughed, finally taking a bite. He hummed and groaned, giving a happy wiggle as the meat melted on his tongue. It was only as he opened his eyes and caught the amber-eyed stare on him that he felt a twinge or embarrassment. "Oh - I am sorry. How humiliating. I'll be quiet..."

"No, it's fine..." he said vaguely, then shook himself from his trance. "Don't blame you. I've seen the slop you eat downstairs."

"Yes, it really doesn't compare," he said, growing more comfortable by the moment as it sank in that anything on the table seemed to be fair game. This wasn’t some sort of test. "I must say, nothing I've ever tasted really compares to this... it's ambrosia."

"I can tell," he said with amusement. He picked at the dishes absent-mindedly, not wanting to take his eyes away from the man opposite him. "You've got quite the vocabulary, for a slave. Who taught you?"

He smiled awkwardly. "I picked up a lot from your uncle. He was a very talkative chap," he said, avoiding his eyes. The last time he'd brought up his uncle it hadn't gone down well. "He was very well-read, with the most marvellous library. I'm sure you knew of it. I did admire those books..."

"I don't read books. Did he let you read any?" he asked curiously. He had never paid much attention to how his uncle had treated his slaves. Well enough for them to grow fond of him, by the sounds of it. Aziraphale looked down, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. "What was that?"

"I said it wouldn't matter if he had," he said, louder this time. He fiddled with the piece of bread in his hands, turning it over a few times. "I can't read."

"What?" Crowley said, eyes wide.

"I can't read!" he repeated, ashamed and somewhat distressed by this. He took a bite from the bread, as if to put a stopper in his mouth. He looked away while he chewed, regretting saying anything at all. He may not be a Roman citizen like him, but he at least liked to think Crowley didn't see him as an idiot. 

"Huh. Well, I'd never have guessed," he said, sipping thoughtfully from his wine. "I don't think the others can either."

"I imagine not," he mumbled.

"Fancy giving it a go?" he asked without thinking.

"Pardon?" he said, taken aback.

"Reading. I could try teaching you," he said, appraising the fruit in the nearby bowl. He tossed an apple over the table at him, which he caught just as it hit his chest. "What do you say?"

“Really?” For the second time, he hesitated, unsure if he was being tricked. Crowley nodded, smiling fondly. 

“Really really,” he said. He resisted the urge to wink. 

"Then I - I would love to!" he said, a broad beaming grin stretching over his face as he began to believe that the offer was genuine. 

Crowley, remembering himself, waved his hand dismissively. "All right, all right, stop being so smiley. It's not that kind," he said sourly, hiding his urge to smile by taking a long drink from his wine. "Don't run around telling anyone I offered, either. This is between us."

"Of course, of course," he said, trying and failing to smother his excitement. 

Philo was the first to notice that Aziraphale was later than usual. They had gotten used to spending mealtimes without him, and conversation flowed without the same tension that it had when he was first detained in the triclinium. When the basement room began to grow cooler, and both women already asleep, he got up to stare at the darkened staircase beside Aziraphale's bed.

"Something bothering you, Philo?" asked Cassius, reclined on his bed on the other side of the room. 

"Aziraphale's usually back by now," he said quietly, not wanting to disturb Augusta or Octavia. He squinted into the shadows, brow creased. 

Cassius rolled his eyes. "First Octavia, now you," he said, shaking his head. "Stop being so fussy. He's a grown man. Whatever happens to him, he ought to be able to handle it."

"That's cold," he replied sharply.

“You’re only worried ‘cause you’ve got a thing for him,” Cassius retorted. Philo’s hackles went up, about to bite back at him, when Cato interrupted. 

"Guys, stop it. I'm with you, Philo, but Master Crowley did ask for a bigger meal tonight," Cato spoke up sleepily, lying belly-down on his mattress. "He's just taking longer to eat. We all know he doesn't dismiss Aziraphale until he's done, and then he's got the whole table to clean."

Philo sighed, retreating from the foot of the stairs and pointedly ignoring Cassius. He sat back down on his bed with a sullen huff. "We should at least be allowed to help him. What's the point in making him tired and starving every night?" he said. 

"Don't say that too loudly, Philo. Master Crowley wouldn't like it," Cassius reminded him dryly. 

"He can't hear us down here. That was the whole point of putting us all underground," he said, throwing himself down on the mattress. "If he can't hear us and we can't hear him, he's happy."

"I'd be happy too if I couldn't hear your whining," Cassius said. Philo rolled his eyes and shut up, and Cato had already begun to snore. 

Philo couldn't sleep. Even after Cassius eventually laid his head down and drifted off, he stayed up, with the futile glow of the oil lamp barely defining the outlines in the room. Aziraphale was at least an hour later than usual, and he was starting to wonder if he would come back at all. If he didn't, well... it would mean that Master Crowley had finally been tempted by someone. He hoped that wasn't the case. They'd been very lucky to have a master who had never done anything of the sort, and in all honestly, Philo would be shocked if that changed so suddenly. He was broken from his thoughts when a door creaked overhead, and footsteps shuffled on the stone. 

A silhouette appeared at the foot of the stairs, feeling its way clumsily to its bed. "Aziraphale?" Philo whispered, heart jolting. A wicked corner of his brain told him that perhaps Master Crowley had come down instead.

"Philo? My dear boy, what are you doing still awake?" Aziraphale replied in surprise, making Philo slump down in relief.

"Waiting for you," he said, struggling to speak directly to him in the inky darkness. "What happened? You were gone for so long."

The shadows hid Aziraphale's shameful look. "Oh, he - he just took his time with dinner tonight, that's all," he said, guilt trickling down his spine. In reality, he and Crowley had talked for most of the time they’d spent together, and had quite forgotten the time. "I imagine the larger meal was a challenge. He usually eats so little, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," he said, glad to have their theory from earlier confirmed. Crowley was just a slow eater, nothing more. Aziraphale was safe. "Your dinner is still there. It'll be almost solid by now, but you must be hungry."

Aziraphale's hand bumped against the dish near the foot of the bed. "Oh..." he said slowly. He'd forgotten about his dish of gruel down here. "No, I'm afraid not. My appetite has passed - and it's too dark to eat anyway."

Philo frowned, squinting in an attempt to make out his expression. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite certain," he replied, putting the bowl on the floor and climbing into bed. "Thank you for waiting up for me, dear boy, but please don't make a habit of it. It's no good for you."

"It's no good to go without dinner either," he shot back, crossing his arms.

"For Heaven's sake, I'm far too tired to argue with you, Philo," he said, finally annoyed. He flipped over, turning his back to the other man. "Goodnight."

There was a pause, and Aziraphale wondered if he was going to press the matter. "Goodnight, Aziraphale," he replied finally, and his mattress rustled as he settled into it. Aziraphale gave a small sigh of relief, drawing his blanket around his shoulders guiltily. He regretted being so sharp, but he had secrets to keep. The rich food, the reading lessons... it wouldn't go down well with the others, he was sure. It was blatant favouritism. He ought to be flustered by it, or humbled, but in all honestly, the only feeling seeping through his body as he drifted off was one of slight smugness, and the first glow of affection for the redheaded Roman upstairs.

Crowley waited in the tablinum, behind his writing desk. The office space was sparsely furnished, with only a few pieces of furniture and trinkets upon them. He was fond of snakes, and many bronze and ebony models of them dotted his rooms. A large chest sat against the rear wall, firmly locked with a distinctive bronze keyhole. There was a light knock on the doorframe.

He looked up. "Aziraphale, finally," he said, gesturing to the stool opposite the desk. "Come in. Close the door behind you."

He did as he was told, sitting down on the stool with a wriggle of excitement. Crowley fixed him with a jaded stare, though something in his chest stirred at the sight of his stupid smile. He took out a sheet of parchment, setting it in front of him. "Lesson one," he said, tapping on the paper. "The alphabet. How much of it do you recognise?"

He picked it up delicately off the table, reading over it carefully. Crowley almost snapped at him to hurry up, but couldn't quite bring himself to disturb the adorable look of concentration on his face. "These few ring a bell," he said finally, pointing to a few characters. 

"Right. This is Latin," he explained. "Don't confuse it with Greek. Latin is the language of the empire, so that's what you'll learn. Don't like it, leave."

"No, no, I'll happily learn Latin," he said quickly. 

Crowley hummed, and continued his explanation. He guided him through the sounds of each letter, and introduced him to some simple words. Aziraphale was attentive and intrigued - a pleasant surprise, since Crowley had expected him to quickly grow bored. They were sat much closer than they had been at dinner, so close that Crowley felt the ghost of his breath across his skin when he reached over to point at something on the paper. It was strange, to speak so continuously to one of his own slaves, and in such a relaxed manner. He wondered if they were all so easy to talk to. Some part of him was shocked that he'd never given much thought to their individual personalities before.

Aziraphale's thoughts weren't so introspective. The Latin script before him seemed alien and confusing now he'd set his hand to learning it, but Crowley was a good teacher. Soon, he knew the sounds attached to each letter, and was beginning to grasp some basic spelling. There was an added layer of distraction, however, as he began to take notice of Crowley himself. Up close, his lean figure was apparent again, and he often found himself entranced, like a stunned rabbit, in his eyes. They were pale brown, rippled with gold at the edges, giving the appearance of slitted pupils. He kept his eyes fixed on the paper as much as possible, not wanting to be caught staring again. 

By the time the sun had reached its highest point in the sky, Crowley leaned back from the writing desk with a stretch and a groan. "That's enough for today," he said. 

"I agree," he said, then looked over the sheets of Latin scattered across the desk. "But what fun! Thank you, Master Antonius, I do appreciate this."

He curled his lip to save face, brushing him off. "It just makes sense to have at least one slave who can read - and please, it's Crowley, not Antonius."

Aziraphale's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, are - are you certain?"

"Of course I'm bloody certain. It's my name, isn't it?" he retorted irritably, gathering up the pieces of papyrus and turning around to put them back on the shelf in the corner. 

Aziraphale felt a ghost of a smile over his lips. "All right then... Crowley," he said experimentally. 

Crowley almost dropped the box of papers. He had meant for Aziraphale to call him _Master_ Crowley, not just drop the title entirely. What head-of-household in his right mind was on first name terms with his slaves? None! He twisted around, about to sharply correct him, but the words died in his throat. Aziraphale was looking down at his sandals - so hesitant, so flattered - with a light pink tinge on his cheek and a wrinkle at the edges of his eyes as he failed to suppress a smile. He surprised him by looking up, and his tender expression was spoilt by a frown.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Realising that his scowl had slipped, giving way to a dumbstruck stare, he cleared his throat. "Fine," he said, batting his toga clear of imaginary dust. "About this first name business - don't go mentioning it to the others. It's just - "

"Between us?" Aziraphale finished with a cheeky smile. 

He arched a brow, impressed by his boldness. "Bang on," he said. He made for the door, throwing one last look over his shoulder. "See you at dinner."

Aziraphale was working in the allotment after the worst of the heat had passed, just after midday. He uprooted the weeds which had started to cluster themselves at the edges of the field, and he'd always hated this work. Housework was fine - out of the sun, with no soil to get stuck under his fingernails - but field work? Not his forte. He ripped out the weeds hurriedly, not especially caring how well he did it as long as it got done quicker. A large shadow fell across him, and for a split second he was relieved. Then, he squinted up at it.

"Cassius?" he said, recognising the broad frame. 

"You aren't digging deep enough to get the roots," he said gruffly.

He looked down at the shallow crater he'd scraped from the dry earth. "I suppose not," he said with a flicker of a smile, just to cover himself. "I don't suppose you could show me how...?"

Cassius let out a snort of laughter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Show you? Come on, Aziraphale," he said, shaking his head. "I don't need to show you how to dig. It's not hard."

He winced. "I'm just not accustomed to - "

"Don't give me that. So what if you aren't used to it? We're slaves. We do any work we're given," he said, batting him on the shoulder. The blow almost sent Aziraphale chest-first into the dirt. Cassius only laughed, turning away with a loud comment thrown over his shoulder. "Remember, Aziraphale - what are ya?"

He gave a forced smile and a wave as Cassius returned to the other corner of the field. Once his back was turned, his shoulders slumped, sending a tingling sensation shooting along the reddened skin on the back of his neck. "I'm soft," he said plaintively, picking his trowel back up as if it weighed a ton. 

By the time he was done, Aziraphale had broken out in a furious sunburn on his neck and forehead. It prickled and stung, even in the shade of the villa inside. There was no time for rest, however. Augusta could only give him an apologetic smile before asking him to help her clean the bath. The bathing room was one of the finer luxuries in the villa, with a deep stone pool set into the floor, surrounded by thick white pillars with a supply of running water from the aqueducts feeding into Rome. Crowley insisted it be kept clean. He hated bathing with a film of dust over the water, and Aziraphale supposed he could understand that. 

He had almost finished wiping the floor tiles of the dry bath when he heard echoing footsteps in the room above him. He and Augusta both looked up, unable to see anything over the rim of the bath.

"Still cleaning, are you?" Crowley asked, coming to stand at the edge. 

"Yes sir," Augusta said, bowing her head slightly.

"Right, just make s - bloody hell!" he said, cutting himself off as his eyes landed on Aziraphale. "What happened to you? You're redder than a legionnaire's tunic."

He smiled sheepishly. "I was working in the field. Sir," he said, adding the title on as an afterthought. 

"In this heat? You're an idiot, Aziraphale," he said bluntly, rolling his eyes. What was it with him? It was like he didn't want to be comfortable. "I'd stick to the house if I were you. The last thing I need is you peeling skin all over the triclinium."

"Gladly," he said, with a sigh of relief. 

Crowley gave a final grunt of acknowledgement, looking around the empty bath before turning and vanishing again without another word. Augusta frowned at the space where he'd been stood. 

"He forgot to tell us what it is he wanted in the first place," she said pensively. 

"I'm sure he'll remember, if it's all that important," he said, unconcerned, as he continued to clean the tiles. He could see his face in them now, but it was cooler in the bath than it was out there. He was vaguely aware of her inquisitive stare on his back.

"He seems very taken with you, you know," she said softly. Aziraphale paused, tensing up slightly and not turning to face her.

"Oh?" he said carefully.

"I'm sure it's nothing, but... you would tell us, wouldn't you, if he'd made any advances on you?" she said, her hand landing lightly on his shoulder.

He jumped, breaking the contact as he span around. "Advances?" he squeaked. He began to splutter and avoid eye contact, a pained and anxious smile baring his teeth. "Well - I - he hasn't - I mean, how preposterous!"

She sighed, her brows drawn together pityingly. "I worry for you, Aziraphale. If something were to happen... I only wanted you to know that no one would think less of you if you decided to leave," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Leave?" he said, hardly able to hear his own voice.

"Run away. We've always been allowed to keep our dignity in this house, and I respect Master Antonius for that, but if he ever did do anything... unpleasant, then - well, then I would be the first to disobey him," she said with absolute conviction, though the tension in her jaw betrayed the fear beneath the bravado. 

"I'm not leaving, Augusta," he said, almost letting a nervous laugh spill over his lips. "Nothing's happened to me, I swear."

"And you would say something, if he did?" she said, gripping his shoulders firmly. She looked him dead in the eyes, demanding honesty with a charcoal-dark stare. 

"Y - yes. Of course," he replied awkwardly, instinctively leaning back from her. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale intently. He'd come to the triclinium like normal that evening, though he was eating with a much more subdued relish than usual. He was also avoiding eye contact. When Crowley made a comment, he'd give a short answer, or simply nod in agreement. Eventually, he'd had enough. 

"All right, what have I done?" Crowley said irritably, sitting up from the sofa to look him in the eye.

"Sorry?" he said, his pale eyes snapping up in surprise. 

"You've hardly talked to me all night," he said, pointing a spoon in his direction. Through his annoyance, he registered the irony of the complaint. He usually loathed idle dinner conversation, and now he'd been left craving it. "Something's up. What is it?"

"Oh it's - it's nothing. Just a trifle," he said, trying to wave him off. He looked away, pretending as if the far corner of the room had caught his attention. 

"Then you won't mind telling me," he pushed, leaning forward on his knees. Aziraphale stubbornly remained silent, sipping from his cup. "Hm... maybe it's not something I did. Maybe it was that bearded bloke - what's his name? Philo? Perhaps I should have a word with him instead."

Aziraphale shot him a sharp look. "There's no need to be like that," he said reproachfully. Once again, Crowley was stunned into admiration by his blatant disrespect. "If you must know, I - I've begun to wonder why you treat me as you do."

"What?" he said gruffly, going very still.

"It's silly. I didn't want to mention it. It is terrible rude, after all, to turn my nose up at all this," he said, laughing at himself with a broad gesture at the table. 

"Why do you think I treat you this way?" he asked slowly, his hands pressed flush together beneath his nose. Aziraphale's smile dropped, his attention drawn back to his face. 

"I'd not thought too hard about it," he said quietly. He gulped, swiping his tongue across his lips. The real answer, _I had hoped you liked my company_ , refused to pass his lips. It would be completely inappropriate. "I suppose... perhaps I'm a memento."

"Memento?"

"From your uncle. Like a keepsake," he clarified, beginning to fidget uncomfortably under his stare. 

To his relief, Crowley finally blinked, and took a long drink from his wine. "Perhaps you aren't far wrong," he said, his paranoia stirring once again. He took a deep breath. "How much did he tell you about me?"

"Erm... well, quite a bit, I suppose," he said, picking at a roasted dormouse. He'd become quite fond of them, too, since his first taste. "I've heard a lot about your childhood. He was very nostalgic about that, and the times he'd spent with your mother and father." 

"What else?" he pressed.

He hesitated, a little dumbfounded. "He said you were a charioteer when you were a young man," he said, a slight swoon passing over him. "I always did admire that."

All thoughts of suspicion suddenly slid out of Crowley’s mind. "You did?" he said, undeniably pleased. A smug smile began to form on his face. 

"Of course. I only ever saw a handful of chariot races, and it was all very exciting," he said. Then, he winced. "I've heard of some terrible crashes in the arena. You must have been terribly brave."

He grinned, examining his nails in false nonchalance. "Well, you know, when you're in the arena it's all about the rush. There's no room for fear," he boasted, reclining back on the sofa. "It's been a long time since I've raced. Maybe I should bring out my chariot again..."

"Do you still have it?" he said curiously, sitting forward.

"Of course. It's my pride and joy," he said with a nostalgic smile. "Tell you what... I'll tell Cato to go into the barn and bring it out tomorrow morning, and I'll show you, since you're so interested."


	3. Watch The Road!

Crowley was true to his word. Cato grumbled all morning about having to trudge out to the shed so early, and Aziraphale would have felt guilty if not for how excited he was. Charioteers were fabulously famous sportsmen, and even if Crowley had never been a major champion, it was still thrilling to meet someone who'd experienced that walk of life. He washed the plates that morning, thinking of what he might have looked like in his racing days. Perhaps his hair was longer then, tossed heroically by the wind as it whipped over his sharp cheekbones and the wind held his clothes flush to his attractive frame...

_"Hellooo?_ Aziraphale?" someone called, poking his shoulder.

He jumped, his eyes refocusing on the room. "Yes?" he said, shaking off the daydream as he looked at Octavia.

"You looked so dreamy just then. Thinking of someone?" she asked with a teasing smile, leaning against the wall.

"S - someone? Who? What? Who would I be - be thinking of?" he stammered. Heat spread over his cheeks quickly as she raised an eyebrow incredulously at him.

"You tell me," she said cheekily. "Anyway, I can't stay and tease you all morning. Master Crowley asked me to take over your work; he wants to see you out by the shed. I think he wants you to hitch the horses to the chariot."

Aziraphale put on a surprised face, putting down the dishes he'd been washing and drying off his hands. Just as he stepped over the threshold, Octavia called after him: "And don't go swooning where Master Crowley can see you, either! He's got no patience for distracted servants," she called jokingly.

He only rolled his eyes, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he left. His sunburn still bothered him slightly, and he told himself that was the reason he half-jogged over to the wooden shed a few hundred metres from the main villa. He didn't see anything until he rounded the corner of the shed and a dark, skinny figure came into view. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley said warmly, turning at the sound of footsteps. He held out a hand toward the vehicle stood on the dirt track encircling the adjacent field. "Didn't I say I'd show you?"

"You did," he said, stepping up beside him. He looked at the jet black chariot in awe, having never seen one stood still before. It looked lightweight, built for incredible speed, with large spoked wheels on each side. "It's very impressive."

He stopped himself saying anything more when he heard someone approaching. He looked over his shoulder, and Cato appeared with a horse on either side of him. They were both proud, lean bays, tossing their heads restlessly at the sight of the chariot. Crowley grinned, clapping his hands and rubbing them together at the sight. "Aziraphale, Cato, hitch the horses," he said eagerly. 

Aziraphale took one horse, and worked silently alongside Cato to hook it up to the chariot. Cato was then dismissed, while Crowley kept Aziraphale behind on the pretence of double-checking the wheel spokes for splits or cracks.

"Psst, he's gone. Get up," Crowley said once Cato's shadow had vanished around the shed. 

Aziraphale looked up from where he was knelt beside the wheel. "But wasn't I checking the wheels - ?"

"Wh - no, the wheels are fine. They're brilliant, as solid as the day they were made," he said confidently, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him up. 

"Oh," he said, standing up and dusting himself off. Crowley looked more animated than he'd ever seen him, bounding around the chariot in wide semi-circles, telling him about its history.

"I've had it from new. It was my very first chariot, custom made, you can see my initials on the back. Recognise the characters?" he said, nudging him on the shoulder as he alluded to his reading lessons. "Hardly a scratch on her, really, considering how many times I raced. I went all over, city to city, trying my luck. I won my fair share of races before I called the whole thing off, you know."

"Good lord, why ever did you stop?" he said, leaning close to the vehicle. "Any young man in Rome would give their blood for that life."

He gave a bittersweet smile. "Well, that's the thing, isn't it? It's a young man's game, and I had an inheritance to pick up when my father died. Safer to be a wealthy man in Rome than a charioteer in the arena," he said with a shrug. 

"Oh... I am sorry to hear that," he said respectfully, bowing his head slightly. 

The deference seemed almost jarring coming from him now. Crowley broke through the melancholy air with a wicked smile. "Fancy a ride?" he said, nodding toward it. The horses pawed at the dirt, as if they'd heard him.

"In - in that?" he said, dumbstruck.

"What? Scared?" he said, with a teasing grin. He took a couple of steps backward before jumping up into the carriage. "Come on. There's room for a small one."

Aziraphale hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder nervously, wondering if they'd be seen. He looked up at Crowley tentatively, with a small smile. "Really?"

"Really," he said, holding out a hand. Aziraphale took it, letting himself be pulled up beside him.

He bumped into Crowley accidentally. They both jolted back in surprise, though there was hardly any space to put between them. Crowley cleared his throat. "Come here, stand in front of me," he said, taking one set of reigns in his hands. Aziraphale shuffled awkwardly to the front of the chariot. Crowley took the reigns on the other side of him, hemming him in, his chest pressed lightly against his back. "I'd usually have these wrapped around my waist, but not today. Ready?"

Aziraphale gripped the front of the chariot tightly. The dusty, unpaved dirt track stretched out in front of them, baked hard by the Mediterranean sun. The road curled away from the villa around the nearby field. "Just about," he said breathlessly, his heart fluttering in anticipation.

Crowley smirked, and cracked the reins with a flick of his wrists. The horses whinnied, reared, and lurched forward. Aziraphale gasped, thrown back against Crowley's chest as the chariot surged forward, rapidly building speed as hooves thundered over the ground. The wind whipped across them, flapping their togas, making their eyes sting. Crowley laughed manically. He flicked the reins again, accelerating, throwing up a plume of dust in their wake.

"C - Crowley!" Aziraphale cried hoarsely over the roar in his ears. "Corner! There's a corner!"

"Yep!" he yelled back, yanking hard on the right rein. The horses snorted and cried out, their hooves scoring the earth as they were thrown hard into the corner.

Aziraphale screamed, clinging to the front of the chariot. His heart pounded intensely, flooding his system with adrenaline as the wheels skidded before gaining traction again, racing along the next stretch of road. The horses snorted and pushed on relentlessly. He felt himself thrown backward again, now pressed flush against Crowley but far too terrified to care. "Look out for that goat!" he screamed, his eyes wide as the animal gave a terrified bleat and scrambled away, barely evading the thundering hooves.

"It's on the road, it knows the risks it's taking!" Crowley shouted over the wind. "Fun, right?"

"NO!" he replied, shaking in every limb. The world around him blurred into smudges of green, yellow and brown, and only the sky above them seemed to stand still. 

"What?" he replied with a grin, leaning to the side to try and get a look at his face. It took Aziraphale a moment to notice.

"Cr - watch the road, _watch the road!_ " he screeched, pointing desperately ahead. 

He laughed raucously, refocusing on the road ahead as he made another sharp corner. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes tight shut as the speed began to get the better of him. With only the air over his face and the hoofbeats in his ears, he finally began to notice the solid warmth pressed against his back, reverberating with laughter and shivering with the thrill. Eventually, the sounds began to slow, and the panting of the horses became audible. He felt the chariot settle, and roll to a halt.

He didn't move for a moment. His heart still hammered in his chest, out of control even now stood still. Some part of his mind told him that if he tried to step down from the chariot, his knees would give out immediately. Crowley jumped down to the ground with a woop.

"That's the most fun I've had since - well, since the last time I drove a chariot!" he cried, still laughing. He turned to look at the blond, still frozen in place. "Aziraphale?"

He cracked open one eye. Upon seeing the landscape standing still again, he slumped forward in relief. "Oh thank the gods," he puffed. "I thought I'd died and gone to Hades."

Crowley rolled his eyes, holding out his hands to help him down. "Drama queen," he said, taking his weight as he clambered back to solid earth. "Not such a fan of chariot racing now, then?"

"No!" he cried, pouting as he fussily pulled his toga straight again. "I think reading is far more my speed. You go too fast for me, Crowley."

"Too fast? It's a chariot! There's no such thing as slow," he said, patting the wheel proudly. The horses puffed and panted, their flanks sticky with sweat. He nodded towards them. "You look about as rattled as they are. Tell you what, go sit down in the shade. You can have ten minutes, then you can fetch one of the others and take care of the horses."

"I have half a mind to tell you to do it yourself," he muttered, going to collapse against the shed wall, relieved by the deep shadow it cast. 

He arched a brow, joining him in the grass. "Careful. I'm still your master, you know," he said, though there was no fire in his words. 

"So you say," he replied sceptically, fixing him with a wry glance from the corner of his eye. Crowley knew that any self-respecting Roman would have been furious at that comment, but he felt strangely giddy to hear it. He just returned Aziraphale's smile, and didn't argue with him. The so-called 'ten minutes' Crowley had allowed quickly turned into half an hour spent chatting in the shade, until he started to feel sorry for the horses. 

In the weeks that followed, Crowley never forced him back into the chariot. They stuck to his reading lessons, and Aziraphale quickly progressed to writing. His astute mind and fussy habits meant that he made very few mistakes, and Crowley began to provide him with short rolls of parchment, only giving input when he got stuck on a word. That eventually became so uncommon that they usually ended up sitting in the tablinum in companionable silence. Sometimes, Crowley even brought wine and snacks, even if he never actually touched the food himself. 

"What do you tell the others, about all the time you spend in here?" Crowley asked idly one day, looking up from his scroll.

"Hm? Well, they don't really ask," he replied with a shrug, helping himself to more grapes. "But they do get in a terrible flap about the late nights at dinner, sometimes."

"Why's that?" he said, picking a loose thread off his shoulder. 

"Uh - oh, you don't - ?" he stammered, his ears burning. He looked up at the ceiling, feeling Crowley pick up on his discomfort. "I thought - I thought it would be obvious."

"What? What am I missing?" he said, wrinkling up his nose in confusion.

"They worry that you want to... you know..." he said, coughing and making a vague gesture with one hand. He fixed Crowley with an expectant stare, convinced he'd catch on at any moment. He didn't. "To do things... with me."

"What things? Do what to you?" he said, crossing his arms petulantly. "Just say it, Aziraphale."

"Oh dear," he said, scratching the back of his head with an embarrassed chuckle. He didn't think Crowley would be this innocent-minded. "They think you might want to, ah, get under my toga... so to speak."

Crowley stared blankly for a moment. Aziraphale awkwardly watched the words sink in, spotting the exact moment that it clicked into place when his his eyes turned wide. He leaned back from the desk, tensing up in surprise. "That's - that's - they think what?" he stammered, his cheeks growing pink.

"Yes, I realise, obviously, you've never even considered it, and I made sure to put the thought right out of their heads," he said, quickly trying to reassure him. "Please don't blame them. We've all heard the awful stories from other households... we all dread the same happening to us."

Crowley slumped back, processing. It had never occurred to him that they might think that way. He'd never had much interest in other people, not in that way, and especially not in his own servants. He'd been vaguely aware that they had all been very on-edge around the time Octavia first arrived too - probably for the exact same reason, come to think of it - but even then he hadn't connected the dots. Though, he had to admit, he did feel close to Aziraphale even despite his lingering suspicions that he might know more about the Antonius family than he'd like... He could hardly be blamed for how he felt about Aziraphale, though. He ate dinner with him every night, and he'd grown to understand how his uncle had been so talkative with him. Aziraphale loved stories, after all. He liked listening to them as much as he now enjoyed reading them. Crowley happened to love telling stories, which he didn't often get the chance to do in the so-called 'polite company' that skulked around the rich houses in Rome. It was a good dynamic.

He shook himself out of his stupor. "Well. That's a thing," he said, running a hand through his hair. He fixed an uncertain stare on Aziraphale. "You know you're safe with me, right? You trust me?"

"Of course, dear," he replied sincerely. The term of endearment caught him off-guard.

He hummed pensively, forcing himself to focus on his scroll of parchment again. "Good, that's - that's good. I'm glad," he said. There was a creeping doubt beginning to awaken in his mind that actually, come to think of it, maybe he _did_ like Aziraphale a bit more than he'd realised...

Aziraphale sat on a small wooden bench on the side of the villa. The external door down to the servants' room was open, letting the air circulate up and down the steps. He was nibbling on some fruit that Augusta had shared out earlier, thinking on the conversation he'd had with Crowley in the tablinum. The redhead had shown a side to himself that was nothing like the aloof, prickly persona he wanted everyone to see; he was a bit clueless, a bit soft, and maybe even a little shy. Aziraphale smiled, remembering the hesitancy in his voice. He'd been genuinely embarrassed by the topic, blushing like a schoolboy... It was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. He'd always suspected that Crowley wasn't as nasty as he made out. 

His thoughts were disturbed as Philo came to sit beside him, setting out his own share of fruit in his lap. "Hi, Aziraphale," he said, settling against the wall. 

"Hello, Philo," he replied warmly. "Lovely afternoon, isn't it?"

He squinted at the sky. It was bright blue and cloudless, like usual. "I suppose," he said. "You seem in very good spirits."

"I am, as a matter of fact," he said, popping another grape in his mouth. "I've had a lovely week."

"Octavia said you were in a world of your own when she came to fetch you the other day, too," he said, taking a bite from an apple. "She thinks you've got your eye on someone."

He sat bolt upright, spluttering and suddenly unable to suppress a nervous smile. "M - my - eye on? What? No," he said, creasing his brow and shaking his head. "No. Rubbish. Where would I have even met this - this imaginary person?"

He shrugged, smirking slightly as he realised he'd tweaked a nerve. "You lived in a household in Rome for years before you came here. Who knows who you met?" he said. "Did your old master let you have relationships?"

"I told you, Philo," he said, lifting his chin and putting on a high-and-mighty voice, "I am not thinking of anyone."

"Ooh, you liar," he said, laughing and taking another bite from his apple. "Go on, you can tell me. Man or woman?"

"No one," he insisted, pouting. 

"All right, all right," he said, finally holding up his hands and backing off. "I believe you. Sort of."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes affectionately, digging into another mouthful of fruit. Honestly, why would he ever think he was thinking of anyone special? He tried to recall what he'd been thinking of when Octavia had passed comment... He suddenly stopped chewing as he remembered the image of Crowley he'd had in his head: flowing red hair, broad white smile, eyes glittering with the thrill of the race... Had he really been swooning over him without even realising? And just now, when Philo teased him, he'd been thinking of Crowley again. He swallowed hard, the food travelling down in an uncomfortably solid lump. What was he feeling? It was difficult to pinpoint, amongst the nebulous sensations of warmth, comfort and admiration in his chest; or maybe it was nothing specific at all. Maybe he was staring the issue right in the face, just too close to see it for what it was. He scratched his head in uncertainty.

His mind strayed to the many afternoons he spent in the tablinum. He knew that Crowley liked to watch him while he read, and especially while he ate. He hadn't thought of it until now. The look in Crowley's eyes always seemed somewhere between longing, desire and deep sadness. Aziraphale had often found himself just waiting for Crowley to reach across the table toward him and act on whatever strange thoughts had occupied his mind so closely. He never did. He always looked away when Aziraphale tried to meet his gaze, and acted like he hadn't been staring. Aziraphale had to wonder, now his own feelings were beginning to become clearer to him, if it was even possible that Crowley could ever see him as more than just a slave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love a flustered Crowley, poor darling


	4. The Green-Eyed Master

It was very early in the morning when the messenger arrived. Crowley barely had time to dress himself before he heard the message, and knew he had to make it into the city, fast. An associate of his had managed to get into trouble with the law, and he was being called to testify. If he dawdled, they'd proceed without him. In a panic, he scrawled a note and left it where he knew it would be found. Then, he fled out of the villa and disappeared down the road.

Augusta was the first into the villa, and immediately noticed the stillness of the house. There were no rustling papers in the tablinum, no pacing sandals on the hard floors, not even pensive muttering from the triclinium. She poked her head into the latter room, spotting a sheet of papyrus on the table. She picked it up and sighed. There was something written there in Latin, she knew that... but she couldn't read it. Worrying that it might not be for them, she put it back where she found it and returned downstairs to where the others were still getting ready for the day.

"Master Antonius isn't in the house," she announced, with a worried glance back up the stairs. "At least I don't think he is. There's a note in the triclinium, but if it's for us, then he's forgotten that none of us can read," she finished with a note of exasperation. 

"Oh, that's no trouble. I can," Aziraphale said, politely brushing past her and heading upstairs. She stared after him in surprise.

They scrambled up the steps behind him, trailing him to the triclinium like a set of ducklings behind their mother. Octavia looked back and forth nervously, as if expecting Crowley to appear from around the corner and start shouting at them. She'd never seen the villa abandoned so suddenly before; they'd always had prior warning, prior instructions, and they always knew when he'd be back. She reached out, holding on to Aziraphale's elbow for reassurance.

He looked over his shoulder in surprise, and smiled. "Don't you worry, my dear," he said kindly, patting her hand. "Nothing's gone wrong, I'm sure."

He found the paper on the table, and picked it up. His eyes scanned over it for a moment, running his fingertips over each line as he read it through. His brow creased, and he read it again. Then, he read it a third time: _Aziraphale, pretty sure only you can read this. I’m in Rome on business. I'll be back too late for our usual meal, so just help yourself to whatever you like from the storeroom. You're in charge while I'm gone. Good luck. — Crowley_

"What's taking so long?" Cassius complained loudly from the doorframe. "Can you read it or not?"

He shot him a reproachful glance. "I can, actually," he replied peevishly, carefully folding the note and tucking it in a pouch by his hip. "Master Crowley says we should go about our day as we usually do. I don't think he'll be needing an evening meal. And - erm - he says I'm in charge until he gets back from Rome."

"What?" Cato said, voicing the befuddlement on everyone else's face. 

"You're lying," Cassius said immediately, storming over to grab Aziraphale by the front of his toga. He squeaked in surprise. "How do we even know you can read that? You could have made that whole thing up."

"I most certainly am not," he choked, eyes wide and darting back and forth, hoping someone would step in. “C - come now, dear boy, we can at least be civil -!”

"Why you? Why not Augusta?" he continued angrily. As if her name had snapped her back into reality, the elder woman softly laid a hand on Cassius's arm.

"Put him down," she said firmly. Cassius stared at her for a long moment. Slowly, Aziraphale felt the grip on him loosen until he could pull himself free. He straightened out his clothes again with a scornful glance at Cassius. "I don't believe Aziraphale would lie to us. If Master Antonius says we should do as he says, then that's what we'll do."

Aziraphale fussed over his toga until he noticed the many pairs of eyes still looking expectantly at him. "So, Aziraphale, what now?" Augusta prompted, looking to him without a shadow of malice. She had accepted the note with grace, and he suddenly wished Crowley had left her in charge instead. 

"Well, ahm, best to do our usual rotation of work," he said hesitantly, looking uneasily at each face in turn. No one was quite certain where they stood in this dynamic. "We shall take a break at noon, then get back to it afterwards. Yes?"

"Sounds good," Philo spoke up, giving him an encouraging smile. Octavia joined in, also seemingly deciding that this was a good thing. 

With at least some of them marginally happier than before, they began to disperse, taking up their usual roles without complaint. Octavia went to clear the kitchen up from the previous night, Philo and Augusta went to clean the villa from one end to the other, and Aziraphale went to change the sheets on the beds. That left Cato and Cassius to tend to the work outside. The countryside was just beginning to wake up under the strengthening glare of the sun, though the heat hadn't quite arrived with it yet. Songbirds flocked into the tree branches, each straining to be louder than their neighbour. 

Cassius nudged Cato's arm as they made their way around the edge of the field. "Do you seriously believe him?"

"Aziraphale?" he said in surprise. He glanced back at the villa. "I suppose so. I don't think he'd lie."

"Really?" he said, curling his lip. "Well, I guess he is a bit of a goody-two-shoes... but I still say he's been up to something since the day he got here."

"What do you mean?" he said, frowning and looking at Cassius as if he'd gone mad.

"I mean, he's been getting cosy with Master Crowley for weeks," he said. "Staying by his side late at night, going in and out of the tablinum..."

"That's not him," Cato said, crossing his arms. "Master Crowley makes him stay with him most of the time. He doesn't get a choice - none of us would!"

"Look, whatever we think, this proves one thing," he said agitatedly, opening the shed and reaching for the farm tools piled in the corner. "Master Antonius just picked a new favourite, and that doesn’t happen for no reason."

Rome was every bit as awful as Crowley remembered. The city woke up earlier than his villa, and no doubt it stayed up later at night too. It was crowded, noisy, the air thick with the scent of horses and of open-air kitchens. Market-stall vendors screamed over one another in vain attempts to catch the interest of passers-by, and Crowley stuck out like a sore thumb in his black toga. He'd never liked wearing white. It was just impractical, with all the dust and gods-know-what getting thrown up all the time by shuffling feet and hooves. He had no idea how Aziraphale managed to keep his so clean all the time.

The trial of his colleague was drawn-out and boring. He needn't have rushed; they made him wait outside the court until he had to give evidence. He sighed, leaning back against the wall, at least thankful to be out of the sun. Carving out a little bit of headspace among the towering pillars and frescoes, he began to wonder how Aziraphale was getting on. There was nothing difficult going on at home, nothing special that needed to be done, so he was sure he could manage a bit of responsibility just for a day. Augusta would help him, anyway, if anything went awry.

Thinking about it... why hadn't he left Augusta in charge? She seemed like the obvious choice. He scratched the back of his neck, scrunching up his nose in confusion as he tried to remember what he was thinking when he wrote that note. He'd been groggy from sleep, hardly thinking straight before he made a dash for the road. Aziraphale had been the first name to come to mind. He had to address the note to him anyway, no one else could even read; it was just two birds with one stone, really. There was no need to overthink it, he told himself.

Cassius came back to the villa with a crick in his neck and an ache in his muscles. Everyone else was already lounging in the shade, taking their midday break and sharing around the water jug. He stopped beside them, half-stooped over.

"Where's old blue-eyes?" he grunted, running a hand through his hard hair. He couldn't see Aziraphale anywhere.

"Still in the house, I think," Octavia said, chewing on the crusts of her bread. 

Cassius looked at the food laid out between them all. It wasn't like Aziraphale to wander off while there was food on offer, unless his forced habit of eating late at night counted. He hummed vaguely, a suspicion taking hold in his mind as he walked along the edge of the house. At the very back, out of sight and sound, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the storeroom door left slightly ajar. Narrowing his eyes, he eased it open, creeping down the uneven steps into the cellar. It ought to have been empty, but as he reached the level ground at the bottom, he saw the unmistakable flicker of lamplight amongst the shelves of food. 

Concealed by the darkness, he stalked along the nearest shelf, peering through the gaps into the next aisle. Aziraphale had his back to him, holding up a small oil lamp to scan the shelf. After a moment's deliberation, he picked a chunk of fine cheese from one board, and helped himself to a few pieces of cured meat and grapes. Cassius's eyes widened. That was Master Crowley's food. Every single one of them knew those shelves were off-limits to them, and there could be no confusion. Aziraphale was a thief!

He drew back in shock. He hadn't been seen, and crept back to the staircase in silence. The gall of that man! To be left in charge of the household, only to then steal from his master's own pantry. Perhaps Aziraphale honestly believed he was entitled to it somehow, but Cassius couldn't wrap his head around that level of presumptuousness. It had to be an opportunistic theft. His first thought was to charge back to the others and loudly announce Aziraphale's crime, but as soon as the fresh air hit his face above ground, he stopped himself. They liked Aziraphale; they were more likely to band together to protect him than they were to sell him out to Master Crowley. The worst he'd get is a stern word from Augusta and some disappointment from the other three. Cassius curled his lip at the mere thought, pacing back and forth across the hard earth. No. He deserved worse. He deserved to be caught and punished, fair and square... If they couldn’t all enjoy the fine food, neither could he. With one final huff, Cassius straightened himself out and went to return to where the others were taking their meal. Aziraphale would get his comeuppance, he'd make sure of it, and Master Crowley would be forced to see him for what he really was. 

Crowley finally gave his testimony, and was released back into Rome. It was just past noon, baking hot, and he was not in the mood to travel home in this heat. He found himself some food from a somewhat reputable-looking vendor, and ate without relish. It didn't taste as good without any decent conversation to go with it. He paced the streets thinking about his dinner companion, guiltily wishing he'd brought Aziraphale along with him that morning. He saw so many things he knew he'd enjoy as he passed the market stalls, from fresh imported fruits to small compilations of poetry, to ornate golden jewellery. 

Amongst a cluster of more high-end stalls, he stopped. Something shiny caught his eye, glinting even though half-buried under a leather chest piece. He brushed aside the clothing, picking up a golden toga clasp, shaped like a pair of folded wings.

"Like what you see, sir? It's a very patriotic piece," the vendor said enthusiastically, no doubt spotting the quality of his clothes and sensing a wealthy customer. "Eagle wings, an imperial symbol! Yours for a very reasonable price.”

It took him a moment to catch up with what he was saying. "Oh, right," he said, clearing his throat and looking at the wings in a new light. In his head, they looked more like they belonged to an angel. His poorly-schooled mind immediately conjured an image of a smiling Aziraphale, with the clasp shining beautifully on his white toga. "... how much did you say?" 

Philo found Aziraphale sweeping the atrium. The day was winding down, with not much left to do without an evening meal to prepare. "Hey," he called, drawing his attention. Aziraphale paused his sweeping, greeting him with a smile. "You handled today really well, you know. Even Augusta's impressed."

"There wasn't much to do, really," he said sheepishly, holding the broomstick with both hands. "It was just a case of - of getting a bit of a wiggle on, really."

He laughed. "You use some funny words," he said, looking him up and down with fondness. "I didn't know you could read, either, by the way. I'm impressed."

"Thank you," he said, continuing to sweep the floor as he became increasingly flustered by the praise. 

"Where did you learn?" he pressed, trailing him as he brushed the dust toward the exit. 

"Where did I - ? Oh, you know," he said, scrunching up his face and trying to shrug it off. Panic muted him for a moment. "Can't recall... Gods, I’ll forget my own head next.”

He swept the dust over the front step, out of the atrium. He could feel Philo's inquisitive stare on his back as he knocked off the dirt clinging to the bristles, hoping he'd give up and move on to another topic soon. The less anyone knew about the time he spent with Crowley, the better. Their relationship was, at best, unorthodox and at worst, downright inappropriate; masters and slaves were not friends, and they certainly didn't treat one another as equals. As for a master sharing his food and spending his time educating his servants? Unheard of. It was far better not to invite attention to themselves. Crowley would be a laughing stock among his wealthy colleagues if word ever got out, and Aziraphale would feel terribly guilty if that were to happen. 

"Is this your last job for today?" he asked, much to Aziraphale's relief.

"Yes, unless something crops up," he said, setting the broom aside and casting an eye over the clean floor just to make sure. "Why? Do you need a hand with something?"

"I just think you could use a break. It's not often we get a day without Master Crowley around," he said, nodding in the direction of the fields. "Why don't we go for a walk around the fields?"

He thought about it for a moment, looking over his shoulder at the road stretching out toward the city which perched on the horizon. He didn't see any sign of a traveller on the road. As far as his eyes could see, it was simply an unbroken stretch of vacant path, following the contours of the countryside. 

"Oh, all right then," he said indulgently. "Just a quick turn around the field."

Crowley was relieved when his villa came into view. His horse plodded at a leisurely pace along the road, bringing him ever closer to home as the heat of the day began to flicker and disperse. Light levels had begun to dip. He knew that his meal tonight would only be hashed together, since he'd told the servants he wouldn't be back in time for dinner. That didn't matter. He was looking forward to a relaxed night with Aziraphale in the triclinium, re-telling the many annoyances of the day to his sympathetic ear. The very thought filled him with a calm, fuzzy feeling. 

He dismounted his horse when he reached the house, taking off the bag he'd strapped to the saddle. As he slung it over his shoulder, he spotted Octavia coming across to take the horse. She gave him a respectful nod as she took the reins.

"Will you be wanting dinner, sir?" she asked.

"Just something simple," he said, checking the contents of his bag to make sure he hadn't dropped the golden wing clasp. "Did you get my note this morning?"

"We did. Aziraphale read it for us," she replied, her eyes still angled toward the ground. She dared to look up for a fleeting moment. "He was in charge all day, just like you said."

He nodded, humming in confirmation, and noticed the way some tension in her shoulders unfurled. He paused. "Were you surprised by that, Octavia?"

"Oh - um," she said, looking down at her feet again. "Not me, sir, but... no, we weren't surprised."

"You were about to say something else just then. But what?" he pressed, fixing her with a piercing amber stare. He didn’t mean to be intimidating, only inquisitive. She gulped.

"Cassius didn't believe him at first, is all," she admitted, almost inaudibly. She fiddled with the reins in her hands, clearly uncomfortable. "May I leave, sir?"

He curled his lip slightly, running his tongue over his teeth. "Hm," he said, turning his suspicious mind on Cassius. Why insult Aziraphale like that? What had he ever done to deserve it? "Yeah, you can go. Send Aziraphale to see me in the triclinium on your way. I want to hear his version of how things went today."

She took a step, then hesitated. "I - I think Aziraphale isn't in the house at the moment, sir," she said awkwardly, biting her lip. He turned sharply back toward her.

"Not in? What do you mean, not in? Where the hell else would he be?" he snapped. 

"I believe he went for a walk with Philo after he finished his work for the day," she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth almost without her consent. She glanced nervously out toward the open countryside. "I think they took the dirt track around the field. Shall I go looking..?"

"No," he said, stiffening up and grinding his teeth slightly. "It's fine. Someone else can serve the food tonight."

He went straight to the triclinium, throwing down the bag in his hand with a metallic clank. He couldn't bear to sit down. He stormed back and forth across the room, only vaguely aware of the sun's slow progression further behind the horizon. He'd have loved to convince himself it was the hunger making him angry, but his appetite had long since been quelled. No, this was different. This was a burning sensation that began in the pit of his stomach and boiled up until it became bile on his tongue, bitter and cloying. He knew exactly why he was angry. 

Philo, he was the one with the rough-but-handsome face, half-masked by a beard. Were he and Aziraphale... together? What were they up to, going so far from the villa? _All couples need privacy,_ his mind hissed nastily at him in response. He gnashed his teeth. More importantly, why did he even care? He didn't put any restrictions on what his staff got up to with each other, as long it wasn't disrupting anything. He stopped dead in the centre of the room. His servants had relationships sometimes, he knew that. It had never bothered him before. But this, the mere thought of Aziraphale stealing away into the fields somewhere with another man, a man that wasn't him...

"Ngk," he squeaked, clutching at his own toga. His heart gave an unpleasant lurch, as if he had suddenly thrown himself from a great height. He took a deep, shivering breath. His cheeks burned, then his ears, and the sensation quickly spread down the back of his neck... at that moment, Crowley knew that he had fallen. He had fallen for Aziraphale. 

"Sir?" a gruff voice said, snapping him to reality. The whole world seemed artificial somehow, far away, untouchable... Crowley's eyes focused on Cassius, stood respectfully by the door.

"Not now," he rasped.

"Sir, I have something to tell you about - "

"I said, _not now!"_ he barked, rage flaring up in his chest for a burning instant. Cassius flinched, before turning to leave without argument. 

Crowley took another breath, collapsing bonelessly onto his sofa. A low, pained noise escaped him. His emotions circled around one another in a storm, confused and fiery and painted in a thousand colours he'd never seen before. It was unbearable. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. In the eye of this internal storm, a perfect image of Aziraphale sat in an oasis of calm waters; glowing, happy and angelic. 

"How did it come to this?" he groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. He was waxing poetic in his head like some lovesick child... His heart thrummed out the answer against his ribs. _You're in love, you're in love,_ it mocked; _you're finally in love._

He didn't move for a long moment. Had to happen eventually, he told himself. Happens to the best of us. Nothing could come of it, anyway. Aziraphale was a slave, and Crowley was a Roman citizen. Technically, yes, he could keep him as a concubine, but his stomach wrenched at the mere thought. Aziraphale was too important, too precious, to be treated so poorly. Crowley would be nothing less than a monster if he tried to make him into some sort of pet, and he'd never forgive himself for it. It was out of the question. And besides that, even if Crowley did tell him how he felt, he'd never reciprocate. He was already out "walking" with that Philo character and - 

He suddenly sat bolt upright, gripping the upholstery of the sofa so tightly it hurt. The implications of Aziraphale and his little outing hit him anew, sending a freezing deluge of pain through him. No - no, it wasn't pain, was it? Not entirely; this was jealousy. He took a fistful of his hair, trying to sort through his emotions and failing completely. There was a shuffle by the door, and he sharply looked up. 

"Augusta," he said with urgency, sitting up and half-leaning over the back of the sofa.

"Yes?" she said, obviously perturbed, ready to turn and flee from the the room at any moment. She'd already heard him shout at Cassius for some reason, and Octavia said he hadn't seemed very happy when he came back...

"Forget dinner," he said, rubbing his temples. "Just bring me a jug of wine - the strong stuff, not that watered down nonsense."

"That's all?" she said, brow creased slightly.

"Yes, that's all," he snapped. 

Aziraphale enjoyed the coolness in the air that accompanied the twilight spreading itself across the fields. Philo was a gentle sort, and easy to listen to. He mostly talked about the wildflowers that grew in the grasses at the edge of the arable land, and the little animals you might see there on a summer's day. Aziraphale enjoyed the company; it was nice, for once, to talk to someone without any complicated context hanging overhead. He wondered what he might say, if Crowley ever did express an interest in him... He was guiltily aware that he’d stopped listening to Philo some time ago, too taken up in thoughts of his master, whom he was very aware that he was now in love with. The realisation had been easy. Love had always been something he’d chased, something he’d yearned for, and it was hard to deny when it sat in his hands so obviously. 

The two of them walked around the full perimeter of the field before the villa came back into view again, a vague white shape that glowed amongst the shadows spilling over the horizon. Aziraphale squinted. “Is that lamplight I see, from the triclinium?" he said anxiously.

Philo looked. "Bugger. I think it might be," he said, tensing up. "Master Crowley must have come home earlier than we thought. Come on!"

Aziraphale gave a cry of surprise when Philo broke into a run toward the house. With a huff, he followed, struggling to keep pace with him over the uneven terrain. He'd all but lost his breath by the time they reached the external door down into the slaves' quarters, and his puffing and panting alerted the others to their presence long before they reached the bottom. 

"Where on earth have you two been?" Augusta hissed the instant they were inside.

"Ju - just for a stroll before sundown," Aziraphale gasped, leaning forward heavily on his knees.

"Well, Master Antonius returned, and he wanted to speak to you," she continued, planting her hands sternly on her hips. "But you weren't here, were you?"

"What did he want?" Philo asked, patting Aziraphale sympathetically on the shoulder as he caught his breath. 

"He wanted to hear how things had gone today," Octavia piped up, curled in a ball on her bed. She shared a glance with Cato. "He really wasn't happy with you two."

Aziraphale finally straightened up again, tugging his clothes straight. "Well, where is he now?"

"In the triclinium, drinking heavily as far as we can tell," Cato said, with an apprehensive glance toward the staircase leading to the villa. "Something tells me he's had a bad day as it is."

"Then I'll just go and see him, I'll apologise, and everything will be okay again," he said confidently, taking a few steps toward the staircase before Octavia threw herself into his path.

"No!" she said shrilly, pushing him back by the chest. "That won't happen. He's angry, and drunk, Aziraphale. He could hurt you. Please, please just - just stay down here with us."

He scoffed for a moment, looking across to Augusta for support. His brow furrowed when he saw the anxiety written across her features, too. His head turned back and forth, scanning the quiet worry building in the room. Even Cassius looked perturbed. Now he'd noticed the tension in the atmosphere, he was engulfed by it, feeling it seep through his skin like freezing sheets of rain.

"Y - you can't all think he would hurt me, surely," he said in disbelief, turning around on the spot. "He's not a monster."

Cassius scoffed, tossing a stone into the air idly. "Worse. He's a citizen," he muttered. "He's got our lives in his hands, and they're only worth as much as he says they are. Don't think he'd spare you any pain just because he thinks you're pretty, Aziraphale."

He flushed at that, about to splutter out a protest before Augusta stepped in. "Cassius, that's enough," she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. With a sigh, she turned back to the blond. "Aziraphale... I don’t disagree with you. He isn't an evil man, no, but... that doesn't mean he's perfect."

"I never said - "

"I know," she interrupted. She angled her eyes to the floor, pensive and forlorn. She raised her voice to address the room. "No one is going upstairs until tomorrow morning, and that's final. Master Crowley will be in a better mood when he's sober."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhh I don’t know if romans had any concept of angels as we’d think of them but just roll with it. Aziraphale is Crowley’s angel, always and forever, so I’m going with it.


	5. A Free Man

Crowley woke up in his bed with no memory of putting himself there. He sat up with a hiss of pain, rubbing his aching head. He was glad that he'd had his bed custom made, making it more than twice as wide as the narrow sofa-like ones in other houses, because he was fairly certain he'd have rolled out of it during the night if he hadn't. Unsteadily, he got to his feet, pulling on some clean clothes and pushing his way out of his room.

The villa was oddly quiet. He could hear someone moving around in an adjacent room, and almost went to check, but decided against it. Who would he even be hoping to find? Better to find breakfast first. He entered the tablinium expecting to find one of his servants waiting for orders, only to be greeted by the sight of the table already laid with food and water. 

"Oh," he said, glancing around as if he might see someone still hanging around. He was alone. With a sigh, he sat down, taking some of the fruit and beginning to eat. He drank most of a jug of water before his mind turned back to the revelation of last night. 

He was in love. He slumped back against the sofa, perplexed with himself, with a nausea churning in the pit of his stomach. The alcohol had seemed like a good idea at the time; some part of him thought that maybe he would have gotten over this silly little 'love' thing by morning. He hadn't. It lingered as a persistent, fuzzy warmth in his chest when he remembered Aziraphale's boundless curiosity, his clever mind, his adorably bizarre turns of phrase... Not to mention his general disregard for Crowley's authority. He wasn't scared by him at all. It was shocking, blatant, and endlessly refreshing. Crowley groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. This was ridiculous. He couldn't act on these feelings, not in any way that would fair to Aziraphale. 

A knock at the door drew his attention. "Come in," he called, straightening up.

Cassius poked his head inside. "Sir? Can I talk to you?"

He paused. "Yeah, whatever," he said, beckoning him in. "Make it quick."

With a wicked smile, Cassius closed the door behind him, moving into Crowley's line of sight with his chest puffed out proudly. "Sir," he said, "Aziraphale is a thief."

Crowley froze, his cup of water halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked onto his face. "Come again?" he said, unable to remember Aziraphale stealing anything besides his heart.

"I saw Aziraphale stealing food from the storeroom," he said insistently. Crowley wasn't blind to the greedy glint in his eye; he was clearly hoping for a reward for selling Aziraphale out. "He snuck down there yesterday while we were taking a break."

He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, immediately realising what had happened. He'd told Aziraphale he could have whatever he wanted from the cellar, and obviously Cassius had noticed him taking it... "So what were _you_ doing in the pantry, Cassius?" he asked tensely. 

He blinked in surprise, his triumphant expression faltering. "I - I was - I suspected that he was up to no good," he said. "I went to investigate."

"Hm. Seems like a bit of a stretch to me," he said, crossing his arms and fixing him with a suspicious glare. He couldn't let his mistrustful mask slip, not even for a moment. "How convenient, that you just happen to think, maybe, on a _whim_ , that Aziraphale might be stealing... and you're lucky enough to catch him in the act."

"Yes, sir," he replied, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

He hummed thoughtfully, clenching his teeth. "Did anyone else see this happen?"

"No..."

"And did you confront him?" he pressed, dragging out each word accusingly. 

"No," he said, squirming.

"Then why should I believe," he said, braving his hangover to stand up and stalk in slow, threatening circles around him. "... that you weren't, in fact, the one who was stealing from me?"

He jumped. "No! I didn't - no - it wasn't me! He was the one who took the food!" he protested, twisting around to follow Crowley with his eyes.

"Prove it," he snarled, getting in his space. He flinched back. "Don't waste my time with rumours. Get out of my sight, and I'll forget all about it."

Cassius hesitated for only a moment before he broke out of his stiff posture and ran for the door. Crowley watched him go. Once he was alone, he dropped his head into his hands. Great. Now he was covering for Aziraphale, wrongly accusing his own servants of stealing just to hide his own favouritism... this couldn't go on. He swallowed thickly, taking his hand away from his eyes and finally spotting the cloth bag by the table. He knelt beside it, taking out the angel wing clasp he'd bought from Rome. He ran his fingers across the engraved surface, admiring the skilled craftsmanship and glimmering metal, knowing full well that it was nothing that a slave would ever wear. What was he thinking? He couldn't give this to Aziraphale. At least... not as long as he lived here. He sighed, feeling suddenly choked. Crowley couldn't force him to stay. He couldn't force him to love him back, either. Guilt sat heavy over his heart, knowing that Aziraphale deserved better than the life of a slave, and definitely better than the life of a concubine. He turned his gaze toward the ceiling, imploring, questioning, begging whatever god was listening...

"Why me?" he said hoarsely. "Why now?"

No one answered.

Aziraphale didn't like being ignored. It was crueler than cutting words, he thought, because if someone made the effort to be spiteful, at least they thought you were worth the time. He hadn't seen Crowley all day, and no matter how much time he spent sweeping the atrium and dusting the furniture, he didn't make any effort to find him. Perhaps he'd offended him last night when he missed dinner... If only he could explain that it was Augusta who'd stopped him from going upstairs. He sighed.

"Good Lord, Aziraphale, what are you thinking?" he muttered to himself under his breath, forcing himself to focus on cleaning the horse's saddles. "Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself, you silly man..."

It didn't matter. So what if everyone else thought Crowley was awful? He knew the truth. If they couldn't see him for what he really was - a kind, gentle, misunderstood man - then they were the fools, not him. Crowley had proven himself many times over in Aziraphale's mind, and he was glad to have come to the villa instead of being sold off. Life here was quieter than the city, cleaner, and more familial. He could almost feel the love hanging in the air as he trotted back and forth through the house, admiring the austere interior design and architectural style while the scents of cooking wafted through the halls. He'd be quite happy to live out the rest of his days here, he realised. With a smile, he polished the leather saddle with renewed enthusiasm. While he worked, he began to recount the Latin alphabet in his head to stay in-practice. He hardly got halfway through before he accidentally distracted himself with thoughts of Crowley again. He wondered if he was recovering from last night's bout of drinking. He hoped so; he missed Crowley's wit to keep him entertained in the day. 

He finished polishing the leather, returning to the main villa from the stables. He patted the horses on the nose as he passed, smiling as they gave a puff of warm breath on his cheek. He'd barely reached the atrium before Crowley leaned out of the tablinum, as if he'd been waiting for him.

"Aziraphale, in here," he said shortly, disappearing again. 

With a cursory glance around, he hurried into the tablinum. Crowley seemed tense... he wondered if it was just a leftover from the night before. At least he'd finally decided to talk to him. He closed the door behind him, settling in the stool across from him. 

"Is something the matter, dear?" he asked kindly, folding his hands in his lap.

Crowley leaned his head on one hand, with shadows under his eyes. He slouched back in his chair, sullen-faced and silent for a long moment. "Cassius spoke to me this morning. He'd come to tell me you've been stealing from me," he said, scratching his neck idly. He caught a flash of panic on his face. "He saw you taking your lunch from the pantry."

"Which you said was fine," he said, crossing his arms with a pout. 

"I know. That's not the problem," he said. "But I won't be covering for you again."

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "If you insist," he said. 

Crowley swallowed hard. He reluctantly lifted his hand, placing the golden wing clasp on the table. He'd been clenching it tightly in his fist for most of the afternoon, dreading the sound of Aziraphale's footsteps in the atrium. He'd heard him coming and going all morning, and he'd even gone to the door a few times before losing his nerve when he touched the handle. 

"What's this?" Aziraphale said, leaning forward to get a better look. "Why, Crowley, it's beautiful!"

"It's yours," he croaked, kneading his lips with his fingers. He blinked furiously as his eyes stung. 

"What?" he said, looking up at him with a nervous smile, trying not to hurt his feelings. "I can't wear this. People would talk."

"You don't get it," he said, staring at the wall. He couldn't look Aziraphale in the eye right now; he was too disarming, and it would be all too easy to go back on the decision he'd made that morning. "It's a parting gift. I'm setting you free, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale gaped. "W - what?" he said, a smile forcing its way onto his face as he tried to convince himself it was a joke. Crowley still refused to look at him. The smile began to fade quickly. "What do you mean?"

"What do I - ? What kind of a stupid question is that, Aziraphale? You're not a slave anymore," he snapped irritably, turning to face him. A red rim had formed around his eyes, compounded from remorse and the last dregs of alcohol in his system. "Pack your stuff. You leave tomorrow."

He opened his mouth to protest, but words failed him. His expression soured, and he pushed the wing clasp back across the table toward him. "No."

"No?" he said, hardly able to believe his ears. He fixed him with a hard stare, but Aziraphale didn't back down. "This isn't some casual instruction you can just take or leave, Aziraphale. You can't say no."

"I just did," he said, holding his head high.

"Well, I'm not listening," he said, pushing the clasp back over the table.

Aziraphale pushed it away again. "Then neither am I. You can't just make me leave, Crowley. Can't you at least - at least tell me why?" he said, the strength in his voice beginning to crumble, giving way to the stress. He swallowed hard, tears gathering in his eyes. "What did I ever do to you to deserve this?"

If he had listened carefully, he would have heard Crowley's heart crack in two. "Aziraphale..." he rasped, sitting up slightly.

"I... I believed you might have even thought of me as a friend," he continued tearfully, his voice painfully quiet. He released a shivering breath. "How naive of me..."

Crowley's voice had abandoned him. He'd never loved before, not like this, and it suddenly struck him that the old poets and bards had not done justice to heartbreak. No physical pain was comparable. It wasn't violent, wasn't cold, wasn't anything... The sheer absence of it all was excruciating. It was a barren emotion. He saw his own turmoil written in Aziraphale's features, in the very ones he longed to protect in every fibre of his being, and guilt tightened its grip on his shoulders. His eyes flicked down, registering Aziraphale's hand reaching for the golden wings, accepting his fate. 

Crowley slammed his hand on top of it. "No," he said, louder than he'd intended. He gritted his teeth, heart hammering. "It - it's just that..."

"What?" he snapped, already exhausted by the emotional whiplash. 

"I do like you. I do," he said. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose. "I'm trying to help you."

He scoffed, looking down his nose at him. "By casting me out?" he said scornfully. "I don't understand you at all. First you don't seem to want me in your house at all, then you seem to grow quite fond of me, and all of a sudden you're throwing me out on my ear - and then changing your mind again!"

Crowley grabbed a fistful of his red hair, grinding his teeth as he realised how confusing this must be for him. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale," he said breathily. He looked imploringly at his face, only to be met with a guarded, uncertain expression. He let out a frustrated groan. "Work with me, come on, I'm apologising here."

"But you aren't explaining anything," he said, getting to his feet, making Crowley tense up in fear of him storming out of the room entirely. "What are you so afraid of?"

He took a sharp breath. The answer to that question was long, complicated and half-buried in the past, with the other half hanging precariously over the future. "Aziraphale... do you understand what would happen to us, if anyone found out that I - that I - " he began, choking on the truth. He coughed, taking his eyes away and diluting it until it was manageable. "That I cared for you...?"

He took a long moment to think. "You'd be ridiculed by all of Rome," he said, searching the conflicted emotions on his face. Frustration creased Crowley's brow, desperation pooled in his eyes, and fear sent tremors into his hands. "I could be put to death for corrupting a citizen."

"Exactly," he rasped, bowing his head, defeated. "This isn't fair to you, Aziraphale. I can't ask you to stay here, not for me."

"You haven't asked me to stay," he said quietly. He fiddled with his hands, taking deep breaths of the familiar tablinum air. Crowley looked up, pensive. "If you'd truly like me to leave, I shan't argue with you again. But if... if there is a place for me here, I need you to know, I want to stay. I want to be here."

"With me?" he said impulsively, almost begging, his yellowish eyes alight with nerves. Aziraphale felt a glow of warmth in his chest; he was so tentative, so sweet, so unsure... He felt a flicker of optimism in his heart. Somewhere in that unguarded, hawkish face, he saw a familiar emotion as clearly as looking into a mirror.

He took an almost silent gasp. "Yes," he said, dazed. Now he'd noticed it, it was written in every feature, every twitch, every microexpression... Was it possible, that he felt the same? "Good Lord, how... how..."

"Aziraphale?" he said, leaning forward slightly, swiping his tongue over his lips. A note of concern had taken hold in his voice. "What are you on about? What's wrong?"

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, my dear, but I do believe that you could - possibly - perhaps - erm - "

"Spit it out, Aziraphale."

"You're in love with me, aren't you?" he blurted out. He was lucky to have forced the words out, because his throat seemed to close up immediately as Crowley gave a start of surprise. He flushed red, suddenly doubting his own judgement. 

Crowley didn't have a clever retort to that. He swallowed hard, his jaw set so tightly that it felt as if he'd never pull it apart again. Aziraphale's eyes brimmed with anxiety, with sheer terror in the long silence that followed. Crowley opened his mouth, denial ready to roll off his tongue, only to choke it back at the last second. He could lie to anyone else in the world, but not to him. He could never lie to Aziraphale.

"Yeah. You're not wrong," he said quietly, staring down at his hands on the table. He bit his lip hard, trying to regain any semblance of composure. He gently lifted his gaze back up to Aziraphale, his tumultuous emotions forcing his voice to come out battered and bruised. "I am sorry. I'm so sorry."

Aziraphale gasped. He reached out for him, only for him to shy away in shame. "What do you have to apologise for, my dear? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I'm your master, Aziraphale. I'm not supposed to love you. I can't ask that of you!" he hissed, standing up to pace around the room in circles. Aziraphale twisted around to watch him stalk along the walls like a caged animal, agitated and breathing heavily. "You don't even like me."

"I do!"

"Fine, but you don't love me, do you?" he said, flaring up in anger for a moment as an image of Philo flashed in his mind. He sharply reprimanded himself, and slumped down again. That jealousy was his problem, not Aziraphale's. "You don't."

"Of course I do, you idiot," he snapped, crossing his arms with a pout. "If you could hold your tongue for more than five minutes, I'd have had a chance to tell you earlier!"

Crowley froze. His heart had stopped beating, as if Aziraphale had reached into his chest and closed his fist around it. The sound of his voice reached him first, soft and warm, before the meaning of his words sank in. He opened his mouth, only to find no words left in his head. He closed his mouth again, and kept staring at him. 

"Now that I've got your attention," Aziraphale said, very pleased with himself as he went to stand in front of him, "Are you going to let go of this silly notion of making me leave?"

After a pause, Crowley nodded dumbly, unable to take his eyes away from the tenderness in Aziraphale's expression. He blinked. This was... new. He opened his mouth again, taking a long moment to remember what it is he actually wanted to say. "So... you aren't...?" he said, coughing awkwardly. "You're not interested in anyone else? Just me?"

"Just you," he said, in a near whisper. 

"Um... right. Right. This is - a thing, then," he said, fidgeting uncomfortably, his whole body alive with skittish joy and disbelief. Aziraphale wore a lightly amused smile. "I still don't want you to be a slave, though. S'not right."

"And yet it's fine for the others?"

"M'not in love with them," he mumbled petulantly. He had a point, though. Deciding to think about it another time, he hesitantly reached out, taking his hand. He ran a thumb over his soft skin, relieved to feel him reciprocate the gesture, entwining their fingers.

"Then I won't be a slave. I'll be a free man, who just-so-happens to live in your house and do a few odd jobs," he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Crowley nodded vaguely. "No one needs to know that anything between us has changed at all. It'll be... well, just between us, yes?"

Aziraphale couldn't resist sharing the smile that spread over Crowley's face. He'd woken up that morning a slave, but he would go to bed that night as a free man. Not only that, Crowley had done the unthinkable, and confessed his feelings openly. Now it was over, with hindsight, it seemed stunningly easy, like a soft fall into downy meadow-grass, or the gentle haze of a pleasant wine. He held Crowley's gaze, an unfamiliar current of emotion now moving freely between them. 

Swallowing thickly, Crowley dared to break the silence. "So... what happens now?"

"I believe you're supposed to kiss me," he replied without missing a beat, squeezing his hand. Crowley hesitated only for a moment, breath hitching, before he let his eyes fall shut and leaned in...

Octavia sat cross-legged on her bed, alone in the slaves' quarters. She often took short breaks between jobs, and the room was nice enough. The rough-hewn walls were homely, in their own way, and the scent of straw hung in the air alongside the scents of cooking flowing down from upstairs. She was surprised to hear footsteps from the floor above, on their way down. Aziraphale stepped into the room with something in his hand.

"Oh!" he cried when he noticed she was there. He quickly hid the object in his hand behind his back. "Octavia, my dear, I thought you were with Cassius."

"He's grumpy today. He got shouted at for some reason," she replied, eyeing him curiously. "What have you got there, Aziraphale?"

He smiled nervously. "Wh - what have I got where?" he said, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Behind your back," she said, gesturing. She brushed some hair behind her ear, a smile creeping onto her face. "What is it? Something special?"

"N - No, _no,_ " he said, drawing out the noise over-enthusiastically. He tightened his grip on the golden wing clasp behind his back, wrapped in cloth. "What on earth would I have like that?"

"You tell me," she said, shuffling forward on her knees with a teasing smile. "Something from Philo?"

His brow furrowed, breaking through his sheepishness for a moment. "Philo? Why would it be from him?"

She shrugged, standing up and making her way toward the steps. "I don't know," she said innocently, patting him on the shoulder. "Everyone's whispering about you two going into the fields yesterday..."

His cheeks began to burn furiously. "My dear girl! Nothing _happened,"_ he insisted, flushing red. An irrational corner of his brain suddenly began to worry that Crowley might overhear. "But even so, in a _field?_ I have standards, Octavia."

"Oh, is that all that stopped you?" she laughed, mounting the staircase. Aziraphale spluttered indignantly. "There's no need to be embarrassed, Aziraphale. You and Philo are good together, we all think so."

"All?" he said weakly, shoulders slumping as she began to climb the stairs. 

"Philo included," she giggled, finally disappearing onto the floor above. 

Unable to let go of the anxiety curling in his gut, he knelt down beside his bed, pushing the wrapped clasp underneath. His other belongings - a few coins, a small painted chariot from his childhood and a piece of Celtic jewellery from his mother - were still in the cloth bag he arrived with months before. With the gift safely hidden, he sat on his mattress, nervously fiddling with his toga. Did people really think he was interested in Philo...? Worse, was Philo hoping that something would happen between them? He winced. Crowley definitely wouldn't like that. Shaking his head, he decided to brush it off; Octavia probably just had an overactive imagination. Philo was his friend, nothing more. 

"Oh, Aziraphale?" Octavia called down the stairs.

He jumped. "Yes?"

"Get up here, it's almost time to serve Master Crowley his dinner," she said, and disappeared again.

An unbidden smile found his lips. He got to his feet, smoothing out his clothes and fluffing his hair slightly. Carrying himself with as much grace as he could muster, he headed up the stairs, heart fluttering. He had a dinner date, after all, and the thought of Crowley lounging in the triclinium, waiting just for him, made him giddy with delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! New chapter. Just wanted to leave a note to say how happy I am to see people enjoying the story, and thank everyone for all the lovely, kind comments that have been left so far. You’re all treasures, and you make this fic writer very happy <3


	6. Getting Comfortable

Mealtimes were more relaxed than ever for Crowley and Aziraphale. Soft laughter and good conversation filled the triclinium each evening, while the evening breeze scattering the heat of the day. Aziraphale never did take to lying down to eat his food like Crowley did, far too attached to his good posture. Neither of them minded. Crowley no longer averted his eyes when Aziraphale caught him staring, instead seeming only to pour more adoration into his gaze. 

"You look like an angel in this light," he said one evening, the scent of wine rolling off his breath. 

"Stop it, you," he replied, rolling his eyes with a smile.

"S'true," he said, sitting up slightly to press his case. "The white toga, the lamplight... I didn’t just buy that toga clasp for a laugh, you know.”

"Well I assure you, dear, I'm entirely human," he said, savouring a mouthful of meat and cheese. 

"Whatever you say, angel," he said cheekily, grinning at him as he took another sip of his wine.

"Oh for gods' sake, stop flirting and eat some food for once," he said lightly, pushing a plate of his favourite dish toward him. Crowley obligingly took the food, scarfing one down quickly and licking his fingers clean, keeping eye contact with a suggestive smirk as he curled his tongue around his fingers. Aziraphale looked away with a light pink blush.

"Problem, angel?" he asked, reaching for another plate.

"You fiend," he mumbled self-consciously, and Crowley cackled in amusement.

Octavia and Cato worked together during the mornings, when there wasn't much cleaning to do apart from last night's dishes. They were making a start on washing some clothes, on the fringes of the villa where the excess water could run out into the fields. As the youngest two members of the house, they often confided in one another, and shared whatever gossip they could get their hands on. Recently, they'd had a new favourite topic to discuss.

"Has Philo said anything to you recently?" she asked, submerging a swathe of clothing in the tub of water they'd prepared.

"About Aziraphale? Not really. He's not had much time alone with him since their walk that day," he said with a shrug. "Master Crowley is keeping Aziraphale busy all the time these days. He hardly leaves his side."

She cringed. "I know, but he doesn't seem unhappy. I don't think anything bad is happening," she said, and Cato nodded in agreement. "Poor Philo, though. He’s smitten. I mentioned it to Aziraphale not long ago, and he got all flustered about it."

"You might have just embarrassed him," he said chidingly, taking a mound of wet clothes and wringing them out.

She shrugged carelessly. "Maybe. I felt a bit bad, but I just wanted to know what they were up to on that walk," she said. With a snicker, she added: "Aziraphale said he wouldn't have done it in a field, though, so looks like Philo was left out in the cold.”

"You're too young to be thinking about things like that," he said, placing the damp clothes safely off the ground. 

"I'm seventeen!"

"Like I said, too young," he said stridently. She rolled her eyes. "Listen, if Philo and Aziraphale want to see one another, that's great. They're good men, but they don't want you poking around in their business."

"You gossip just as much as I do," she pointed out, dunking the next lot of clothes in the water. 

"Talking about it is different from actually _asking_ them," he said with a shrug. "But... if he can grab a moment alone with him, I think Philo's in with a shot, too."

Philo was not. Aziraphale was growing more and more comfortable with Crowley by the day, soon finding himself hand-fed at dinner while reclining against his chest with a book in his lap. His only complaint was that their time together was limited, for fear someone would catch on. He still spent most of his days going about the villa doing the same menial tasks as usual, though he took as many as he could that kept him close to Crowley’s side. 

Cassius was quickly becoming a thorn in his side. No doubt he was wondering how Aziraphale had gotten away with his supposed theft and still come out the other side smelling of roses, at least as far as Crowley was concerned. Aziraphale constantly expected him to bring it up, but he never did. He seemed committed so simply glaring at him from afar, narrowing his eyes every time he mentioned their master’s name. Aziraphale tried very hard to ignore him... he was making it very difficult though, since he kept appearing whenever Aziraphale tried to take a break on his own. He was starting to feel very suffocated. If he kept this up for much longer, Aziraphale had started to wonder if he should tell Crowley, or if that would be too presumptuous of him...

Late one evening, not long before Aziraphale usually returned to bed, Crowley seemed distracted while he played with his white hair. "Is something on your mind, dear?" he asked, lifting his head from his shoulder. 

"Just thinking. I've trusted you with a lot," he said, swiping his tongue over his teeth. He hadn't drunk any wine that night, just to keep a firm grip on his inhibitions. He'd been thinking this over for some time. "My house, my reputation... my heart, you might say."

"You soppy old thing, listen to yourself," he replied sweetly, nuzzling close to his neck. "Do keep going."

He chuckled. "I've been thinking, I'd like to give you something else," he said, reaching under his toga and pulling a chain up from under his clothes. There was a sturdy key looped onto it, glinting in the low lamplight in the triclinium. "Any idea what this is?"

"Something terribly important, I imagine," he replied glibly. 

"It's the key to one of the chests in the tablinum. It unlocks all my most important documents, and a very substantial store of money," he said, taking the chain off. He took Aziraphale's and pressed the key into his palm. "I want you to look after it for me."

He frowned. "Um... why?" he asked incredulously. "Surely you need this."

"Yeah. I'll just ask you for it, if I do," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "Make sure you keep it on you all the time, and don't ever take it off. I'm fucked if you lose it."

He tutted disapprovingly at his choice of words, but didn't comment. "But why are you giving it away in the first place?"

"Take it as a token of - y'know. Of trust," he said, waving his hand vaguely. It wasn't a complete lie. Crowley did trust him, but there was still a lingering, shameful doubt in his mind... how much had his uncle told him? He didn't want to come right out and ask, not at this stage. He didn't want Aziraphale to think less of him; to him, their relationship seemed so precious, so fragile, that the merest breath of wind could carry it clean out of his grasp. He daren't jeopardise everything they'd built - so, giving him the key was to remind himself that Aziraphale was trustworthy. He was worth loving. Crowley wanted so badly to prove to his lover that he would give anything - no, _everything,_ to make him happy. One day, he’d have to come clean about why he’d first kept Aziraphale close to him, and he didn’t want that confession to cheapen their relationship. Hopefully, the key would prove that to him, in time. 

"I suppose," he said, still not convinced by that reasoning. Luckily, he didn't argue the point, slipping the chain on over his head and tucking the key under his toga. He knew Crowley was flighty and unfamiliar with affection, and he was much the same, but now... most days, he felt more free than Crowley did. He was freed from the status of a slave, deeply in love and safe in the quiet life of the countryside. Nothing so drastic had changed for Crowley; he was still shackled to the responsibilities of wealth and status, trapped by the demands of reputation and his so-called friends from the city. He was often plagued with worry over one thing or another, and Aziraphale did his best to help him forget, but some days he wondered if he was really helping much. Crowley always said he did.

"I love you, angel," Crowley murmured, pulling him closer again.

He sighed happily. "I love you too, dear."

Augusta didn't snoop. She wasn't the sort of person to go digging in the business of others, but she couldn't help but notice the subtle differences of life in the villa. Master Antonius didn't seem as surly these days. He was still quiet, and still kept up his guard, but he wasn't so sharp and demanding anymore, as if he didn't want to bother anyone. She wasn't wrong. Crowley's relationship with Aziraphale had given him perspective, and he had started to feel guilty for keeping slaves at all. He especially felt sorry for Octavia. She was very young, and yet still trapped in the remote villa... 

Things only got worse when a horse-drawn wagon arrived on the road. Augusta was the first to see it, but decided to keep her head down. It wasn't her place to greet the guests. Her heart dropped when she saw the dusty-haired man who clambered down to the ground; his toga was an off-colour white, made from some expensive imported material which only succeeded in making him look grimy and unpleasant. She'd heard awful things from other servants about him. This was Senator Hastur.

"You, slave woman," he grunted as he approached. She lifted her head slightly, but didn't dare to meet his dark eyes. "Where is your Master?"

"Inside, sir," she replied.

"Tell him I've arrived."

She nodded and rushed through the atrium, knowing where he'd be. She knocked frantically on the tablinum door, heart rate rising by the moment. There was a shuffle from inside, a grunt, and footfalls. The door opened a crack, Crowley's yellowish eye staring through. "What?" he said sharply.

"Senator Hastur just arrived, sir," she replied nervously. Judging by the way his eye widened, he hadn't expected to hear that.

"You what?" he cried, letting the door open even further. Behind him, Aziraphale stood by the edge of the desk, tense and looking slightly flushed. He gave her a strained smile when she noticed him. "What is he doing here?"

"No idea, sir," she said, stepping aside quickly as he shouldered his way out of the office. 

He disappeared into the atrium, leaving Aziraphale to linger in the doorframe. Leaning close, he whispered: "Senator Hastur, the one we've all heard about...?"

"Yes," she replied tensely. Hastur was famed for his cruelty; only his doorman had managed to survive for more than a few months in his city home, providing the stories that spread amongst the servants of other houses. Even the remote Antonius Villa eventually heard the horror stories, filtering out to them on the odd occasion when they took a trip to gather supplies from the markets. No one wanted to end up in Hastur's home. It was where slaves went to die, whether it was their time or not.

Crowley went to greet his guest with a false grin and as much hospitality as he could summon up on short notice. "Senator!" he said, giving a respectful bow. "What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Don't be too pleased with yourself. You testified in Ligur's trial weeks ago, didn't you?" he said dryly. Crowley winced. 

"Yeah... not good?"

"No," he said flatly. "He's been exiled."

He swallowed hard, doing his best to smother his satisfaction. Ligur had always been a prick. "I'm... very sorry to hear that," he said, staring at the floor for a long moment. "He'll be sorely missed."

"You ought to be sorry. Luckily for you, your testimony wasn't the thing that damned him," he said condescendingly. "You're safe, for now. Don't disappoint me again."

"No, sir," he replied uncomfortably. If he'd had his way, he'd never had crossed paths with Senator Hastur, but his father had been close friends with him. He didn't have a choice. He'd inherited his friends as well as his home and wealth. “Is there something else you wanted? It’s a long trip from the city out here.”

He curled his lip. “I didn’t go out of my way just to see you. I’m on my way to Naples on business,” he said condescendingly. He watched carefully, seeming to enjoy the way Crowley squirmed in the awkward silence. Suddenly, he did double take at something over Crowley's shoulder. He turned, seeing Aziraphale skirting around the edge of the room toward the kitchen.

"What's this?" Hastur drawled, heading him off to block his path. Aziraphale pulled himself up short, almost tripping over his own feet to back away before Hastur caught his arm. Crowley stopped breathing, eyes wide.

"That's - that's - uh - " he stammered, searching for an answer.

"He's very pale. I've never seen one with hair this white," he continued heedlessly, tugging hard on a lock of Aziraphale's hair. He winced, biting back a pained noise. He was trying not to squirm; Hastur's iron grip on his arm was sure to leave bruises. "Shame he's old. I'd have paid a pretty penny for a younger model like this."

Crowley breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Aziraphale shot him a panicked glance, still being poked and prodded like he was on show at a cattle market. "He's not much use, really," Crowley spoke up, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head carelessly. If he could convince him Aziraphale was undesirable, he’d be safe. "Slow worker, always sunburnt..."

"Sounds useless. I'd be happy to take him off your hands," Hastur said, staring hungrily at Aziraphale. The blond was frozen in place, unable to take his wide blue eyes away from the black stare locked onto him. 

"See, he's - wait, what?" Crowley said, taken aback. Dread washed over him. "No, there's - there’s no need. You wouldn't like him. He'd only be a burden."

"He won't last long enough for that, don't worry," he chuckled darkly, beginning to walk around him in slow, purposeful circles, giving him a sharp prod in the ribs as he went. "He's fat. How did that happen?"

"Ngk," Crowley said, looking all around the room as if he might see some helpfully pre-prepared excuses written on the walls. No one had noticed Aziraphale’s weight gain under his toga, but it would be painfully obvious to anyone who touched him. "He's - He's a household servant. I have other slaves for the heavy farm work."

"Hm. How much, then?" he asked, looking Aziraphale up and down. The blond fidgeted uncomfortably, avoiding direct eye contact as his heart hammered in his ears. He shot a desperate glance toward Crowley.

"He's not for sale," he said quickly. Hastur turned a sharp, inquisitive gaze on him. "I inherited him. He’s mine. I want to keep him in the family."

Hastur rolled his eyes, finally giving up. "You’re soft. Your father wouldn’t have been so selfish," he said derisively, barging past him toward the door. "If you’re going to keep him, don’t let him go to waste."

He hummed, noncommittal, as Hastur left the house without another word. They had very different definitions about what counted as a ‘waste’ of a person. He slumped down in relief as soon as he heard the clatter of hooves leaving the villa, rushing over to Aziraphale. "Did he hurt you?" he murmured, pulling up his toga to check his arm. 

"I'm fine. I'm fine," he said, shaken and drained of colour. "He's vile. Even more than I'd imagined."

"I'm sorry, angel, I'm sorry. I wasn't insulting you, I just wanted him to leave you alone," he said, his voice barely a whisper as he pressed a kiss to his temple, running his hands comfortingly through his hair. "I didn't mean what I said."

"I know," he replied, leaning away from his touch slightly with a paranoid glance around. "Crowley - we're in the open. Anyone could see."

He huffed, but pulled away, knowing he was right. "We'll see each other tonight," he promised, with a longing look at him that was a world apart from the predatory fixation Hastur had forced on him. "Give yourself a lie down. You look pale."

Nodding, he broke away and disappeared downstairs, into the basement room. Everyone bar Augusta and Cassius was there, working together on repairing the holes in a few sets of curtains. Aziraphale gave an exhausted wave, collapsing onto his bed with a sigh, facing the wall, hugging his arms tightly as his racing heart finally began to calm down. Philo frowned. He shared a glance with Cato, who shrugged cluelessly. 

"... Aziraphale?" Philo called tentatively, pausing his work. "Is everything okay?"

He twisted around to look at him. "Yes, quite," he said. He hesitated for a moment. "Senator Hastur was here just a moment ago. He tried to buy me."

There was a chorus of horrified gasps. "Gods! Please tell me Master Antonius refused," he said urgently, and Octavia nodded. She looked ready to burst into tears, clinging to Cato's arm.

"Of course he did. He's not a monster," he replied haughtily. "It just frightened me, that's all. I knew Cr - erm, Master Antonius wouldn't dream of giving me away."

"You are his favourite slave," Cato said in agreement.

He scoffed, trying to brush it off. "Don't be preposterous. He'd have done the same for any of us," he replied, turning to face the wall again. He bit his lip, feeling their scepticism burn hot on his back. Philo's gaze lingered for a long moment on the back of his head, wondering if he ought to say something. He decided against it. He was just frightened, and no doubt flustered by the master’s attention. Crowley hadn’t taken an interest in anyone else like he had with Aziraphale. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he hoped that it wouldn’t evolve into anything unpleasant. 

Aziraphale liked working with the horses. The stables gave good cover from the blazing sunshine, and the animals themselves were friendly enough. There was one problem... Cassius was also often skulking around nearby. He kept appearing around the corner of the stable. Aziraphale got the feeling he was keeping tabs on him. He pretended not to notice each time his broad shadow began to pace the yard outside until he spoke up each time. They’d share a few words, and Cassius would leave again. 

Cassius still felt that something was going on the villa, right under their noses. For some reason, Crowley was refusing to punish Aziraphale for stealing from him. Did he seriously not believe he was a thief, or did Aziraphale have some leverage over him? What else was he getting up to, sneaking around where no one could see him? Creeping forward, he peered around the edge of the stable door, watching Aziraphale clear the old horse bedding on the floor. He was still alone. As leant over to brush some straw from his toga, Cassius saw a glint of metal around his neck. A key slipped over the collar of his clothes, dangling on the end of a chain. Aziraphale noticed the shift in weight, and hurried to hide the key again. Cassius quickly drew away before he was spotted.

He ran away from the stables as soon as he was sure he wouldn't be heard. He _knew_ that key. He'd seen it before, they all had, hanging around Master Crowley's neck. 

What the hell was Aziraphale doing with it around his? A spark of rage came to life in his chest. It unlocked the chest in the tablinum, which he'd once seen Crowley open; there was money in there, lots of it. He’d seen more coins in that chest than he’d ever seen in his life. Aziraphale had the means to rob their master blind and make off with enough funds to get halfway across the empire, so why was he still here? Any sane man would have bolted the moment they got their hands on that key. Cassius would have. He'd have brandished the key to everyone in the servants' room, and hatched a plot for them all to take their share of Crowley's wealth and disappear. He'd have been a hero. 

But now... it was too late for that. There was no way he could steal the key from Aziraphale and alert the others before Crowley found out. Aziraphale would go running straight to him, he had no doubt, and it's not like everyone else would agree to leave Aziraphale behind while they all fled, either. That wasn't his fault. Failing that, of course, perhaps Aziraphale wasn't beyond reason; he may only need a little nudge in the right direction to open his eyes to the possibilities. If he didn't, well... Cassius would be miles away before anyone even found out what he'd done.


	7. Runaway

Crowley hated the end of his evening meal. There always came a time at night when Aziraphale would begin to yawn, and he'd know it was almost time for them to disentangle themselves and begin to clear away the table. He'd been helping Aziraphale with that little chore ever since he'd declared him a free man - after all, sitting around idly while he cleared up after dinner just seemed hypocritical. 

"Don't suppose I could tempt you to come back to bed with me tonight, angel?" he mumbled into his neck, curled around him on the sofa. 

"Absolutely not," he replied tiredly. "Could you imagine what Augusta would say, if she noticed that I didn't come back at all tonight?"

"Something close to the truth, I imagine," he snickered, giving him a playful nip.

He gave a small, scandalised cry. "And to think, just a few short months ago you were blushing at the mere implication of such a thing!" he said, tutting. "You'll get your way eventually, my dear, but not tonight. I don't think I'm quite ready yet."

He nodded, nuzzling close. "S'okay, angel. I was only joking," he said. "I'll wait as long as you like. No rush."

"I know you will, dear," he replied fondly. He looked blearily out onto the inky darkness covering the countryside, so thick that he could see nothing but the vague outline of the horizon slicing the scene across the middle. "Good Lord, it's late. I'd best be getting a wiggle on."

He tried to sit up, only for Crowley to wrap his arms around his waist stubbornly. "No you don't," he said, hugging him tightly. "Ten more minutes."

"Crowley - " he said chidingly.

"Five more minutes, then," he bargained. He stared up at him, sticking out his bottom lip in a theatrical pout. "Please, angel? Have mercy on your poor lover."

He rolled his eyes, unable to push down a smile. "You and your antics," he said, shaking his head and settling down again for another five minutes in his arms. "We'll fall asleep like this one of these days, and when someone finds us the next morning, we'll both be in bother."

"Ssssh, we're having a moment," he replied, enjoying the weight and warmth pressed close to him. It was an idyllic five minutes. 

Aziraphale insisted that he leave the second time he got up. With a bit of toothless grumbling, Crowley let him go and set about helping him clear the table. It occurred to him some nights that it wasn't so bad, really, to do some things for himself for once. He could probably stand to get off his arse more often, come to think of it... 

They shared one last kiss goodbye before they parted ways. Aziraphale meandered back down the steps, looking forward to climbing back into bed. The straw mattresses were lumpy and unpleasant, yes, but they were softer than a stone floor, and that was all he needed while he was so tired. The room was pitch black, as always, when he got down there. He felt his way along the wall, grasping for his bed. He'd just about found the edge of it when a noise caught his attention.

"Pssst. Psst, _Aziraphale."_

He squinted into the blackness, to no avail. "Cassius?" he whispered. "What on earth are you doing still awake?"

"You'll see. C'mere, follow me," he replied. Aziraphale visualised the room; it sounded like his voice was coming from the far wall, by the arch leading up toward the outdoor staircase. There was a shuffling noise as he headed up the steps. With a sigh, Aziraphale went to follow. If Cassius had waited all this time, it must be important, he reasoned with himself. He tripped a couple of times as he climbed the uneven steps, overcome with fatigue as his eyelids dropped lower by the second. 

It was brighter outside, with the surrounding fields cast in silvery moonlight and stars gathering above in clusters, like swathes of white fireflies on the endless black dome overhead. He took a deep, bracing lungful of the cool air, enjoying the nighttime scent of dew. "Couldn't this wait, Cassius?" he asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes. 

He sneered slightly. "Not a chance. I know you have the key, Aziraphale," he said, stepping forward to tower over him with dark intensity.

"K - key?" he replied, shrinking back and resisting the urge to grasp the warm metal sitting beneath his tunic. "What key?"

"The key to the chest in the tablinum," he replied slowly. Shadows pooled in his eye-sockets and clung beneath his cheekbones; he had become little more than a skeleton under the Mediterranean night. "I know you have it. I've _seen_ it. Don't play stupid."

He gulped. "Well... so what if I do?” he said, raising his chin defiantly. He had to be braver than he felt. "Master Crowley entrusted it to me, for safekeeping. That's all."

"Gods, for someone so clever, you are a fool," he hissed, grabbing his shoulders tightly. Aziraphale flinched, frozen in place under his iron grip. “How long have you had that for? Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of taking it all and bolting.”

"Excuse me?" He spluttered, floored, as he tried to lean back out of his grip.

"He's given us a golden opportunity to escape, Aziraphale," he said, a manic glint finding his dark eyes as he shook him slightly. "We can split what we find and go our separate ways, all of us. Don't you see?"

"You want me to steal from him?" he cried, finally managing to squirm out of his hold and stumble backwards a few paces. He fell against the wall with a horrified stare. "He gave me that key in good faith, I couldn't possibly - !"

"Oh, don’t pretend you _care_. I know your dirty little secret. I've seen you thieving from the pantry already," he said. Aziraphale immediately clamped his jaw shut. "Yeah, didn't know that, did you?"

"This is wrong," he insisted quietly, looking away. "I won't."

"What did you just say?"

"I won't do it!" he said, louder, turning his distressed gaze back onto him. "Far better that we just - just go back inside and forget any of this even happened. I won't breathe a word to anyone, I promise.”

Cassius fixed him with a needling, unpleasant stare, like a rat eyeing up a dying animal in a hunter's snare. "Okay. We’ll forget all about it," he said, with a tiny inclination of his head.

Aziraphale wet his lips, with a terse nod. "Good. Well," he said, attempting an air of finality as he he turned his back, starting back down the steps again. 

Cassius's arm hooked around his neck from behind. He choked, his hands flying up in a vain attempt to pull him off as he was dragged backwards, away from the staircase. He kicked out with his legs, twisting and lurching as he tried to throw his attacker off-balance. Cassius was as solid as a rock; he never wavered. He tightened his strangle hold. He waited in silence for the struggling to stop, and within a few seconds, Aziraphale's squirming grew weaker and weaker until he slumped down against him, motionless. With a regretful sigh, Cassius let him drop to the floor.

"You couldn't just make it easy on yourself, could you?" he grumbled at the limp form at his feet. 

With a sudden flurry of movement, Aziraphale launched himself across the yard and toward the steps. "Nope!" he croaked over his shoulder, diving down into the shadows.

"Bastard!" Cassius said, lurching after him in a panic. He’d only pretended to black out - he should have known!

Aziraphale burst into the basement room, howling at the top of his lungs. "WAKE UP!" he said, repeating himself hoarsely several times until he heard the plaintive noises of the others being roused from their sleep. 

It wasn't a second too soon. Cassius soon barrelled him over from behind, throwing him to the ground in a confusion of limbs in the pitch black. Aziraphale cried out as the stone floor skinned his chin and knocked the wind out of him. He blindly kicked out, catching Cassius in the belly and scrambling away again. He felt his hand grasping at his clothes, trying to drag him back, spitting profanities at him. Around them, several voices cried out in shock and confusion.

"What's going on?" someone called.

"Who's there?" Cato shouted, grasping in fear for something to defend himself.

"What's happening? Someone get a light!"

Only Octavia said nothing. She was no coward - but she also wasn't stupid. She could hear Augusta fumbling for the oil lamp, but it was taking too long. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, her young ears unfamiliar with the sounds of violence. Cassius's gruff voice hurled curses around the room, though she had no idea what had gotten him so riled up. She couldn't see a thing. Only an indistinct, writhing silhouette of the struggle could be seen, and she was struck with terror at the thought of an intruder. They only had their bare hands to defend themselves. In a moment of panic, she leapt from her bed and raced up the other set of stairs, into the villa. There was only one person, in her mind, who could stop this. 

The silence hit her like a solid wall. It was incredible how well the layers of earth and stone hid the sounds from below, but she didn't have time to ponder it. She raced across the atrium, her bare feet slapping against the marble as she skidded into the next hall. She was only half-cognisant of what she was about to do. In some houses, it would be tantamount to suicide. 

She threw herself against Crowley's door, pounding on it with both hands. "Sir! Sir! Wake up, please!" she screamed. 

She heard a vague grumbling from inside. He sharply tugged the door open, scowling around it. "This had better be good," he said, his unnerving eyes glaring poison daggers at whoever had woken him up.

She swallowed thickly, still panting. "It's - it's downstairs," she said breathlessly, pointing back down the hall. "There's a fight. I don't know who it is, s'too dark to see, but it's awful - it's vicious. Please, sir, you have to make it stop!”

He blinked in surprise, his anger slipping for a moment. A fight? Who would be fighting down there? In a split second, a deluge of fear ploughed through his mind, all centred around his angel down there in the thick of it. His anger returned with a vengeance. He paused only for a moment, snatching a short-sword from the wall, before storming past her toward the basement. Octavia had never seen her master wield a sword before. With a shudder, she began to wonder if she’d only awakened a monster...

Augusta had finally got the lamp working, and was horror struck by the scene she'd found. Cassius had lost his mind. He was all but foaming at the mouth, holding Aziraphale in a savage headlock on the floor. Philo and Cato had immediately leapt on them, trying desperately to separate the two before Cassius choked Aziraphale to death. It was hopeless. He was the strongest of them all, and Aziraphale was still going blue in the face despite the others' attempts to free him. 

"Oi!" bellowed a new voice from the villa above. Everyone turned in shock, falling suddenly silent as they stared in the direction of the rapidly approaching sound. "What the _fuck_ is going on down there?"

"Shit!" Cassius yelled, immediately dropping Aziraphale and bolting toward the other staircase. Augusta had never seen him move so fast.

Just as Cassius vanished into the dark, Crowley emerged into the basement, his sword glinting wickedly in the flickering lamplight. His eyes raked the scene. They flicked from the exhausted faces of Cato and Philo, the shellshocked Augusta, and finally landed on the weakened, bloodied face of his angel against the floor. He let out a strangled cry, his blade clattering to the ground as he dropped to his knees beside him.

"Aziraphale!" he said, lifting his head from the floor, trying to gauge if he was still breathing.

Thankfully, he gave a strained wheeze, his eyes struggling to focus on the face above him. "Oh hello there," he said with a dumb smile. Crowley wasn't sure if he even recognised him. 

With his jaw set tightly, his eyes snapped onto the nearest person. "Who did this?" he snarled at Philo. Venom spread across every inch of his expression. _“Which one of you did this?”_

They all cowered back toward the edges of the room, as if physically repelled by his fury. Octavia quivered at the foot of the stairs, shooting a desperately apologetic glance at Augusta. There was a moment of silence, punctuated by Aziraphale’s laboured breathing. He was the only person ignorant of the tension in the room, hanging thick like fog. 

"It - it was Cassius," Philo said finally, sharing a panicked glance with Cato and backing away out of arm's reach. "We don't know why. He just lost it."

"He ran when he heard your voice," Cato added quickly. 

Crowley clenched his teeth in barely-contained rage, and levelled a calculating glare at the other staircase. He weighed the benefits of giving chase; Cassius would never outrun him if he was in pursuit on horseback, and he'd be able to run him down within the hour. Spurred with the temptation of revenge, he went to stand, but froze when Aziraphale gave a pained cry and brought him crashing back to earth. He looked at him for a long moment, at the dazed and exhausted man in his lap with a bloodied graze across his chin... Revenge suddenly didn’t seem so important. Aziraphale needed him more. 

"I'll report Cassius to the Vigiles tomorrow," he said, carefully getting to his feet. He looped Aziraphale's arm over his shoulder, pulling him to his feet. He looked over to Octavia, who stared back anxiously. “You were right to wake me. Thank you.”

Hesitantly, she nodded, wringing her hands together. "And Aziraphale... W - Will he be okay, sir?"

He looked at him. He was just about standing, catching his breath even as dark bruises began to from on his throat and face. He leant heavily against Crowley's bare chest. "He'll be fine," he said, beginning to guide him toward the steps into the villa. "I’ll watch him for the night. You lot go back to bed, and don't any of you even think about looking for Cassius. If he comes back, I want him dead, you hear me?"

She flinched back, wide-eyed. He almost apologised on a whim, but bit it back. Starting a fight in the dead of nighttime was bad enough, but Aziraphale being targeted had doused his rage in paraffin oil and set it burning tenfold hotter than before. Cassius had been right to flee. Crowley could hardly imagine what his own blind rage might have made him do, if he'd have caught him in the act. At least his head was clearer now. 

"Understood, sir," Philo piped up.

With a terse nod, Crowley took Aziraphale back upstairs. He took every step gently, conscious of his pounding head, until they reached his bedroom. Holding his breath, he carefully laid him back on his bed, taking a moment to murmur soft nothings in his ear and pepper his face in gentle kisses. If Aziraphale hadn't realised who it was before, he certainly did now. He blinked, his eyes clearing and regaining some of their intelligence again now he'd had a chance to breathe deeply.

"Crowley," he gasped, reaching out to him. His bare shoulders were warm and steadying under his palms. 

"Hey. Calm down, it's okay," he said, holding his wrists gently. "I've got you."

"Cassius, he wanted the key. He knew I had it," he said, grasping under his toga and pulling out the chain. He sighed in relief as he saw it was still there. "Oh thank heavens..."

"Bugger the key, angel. I couldn't care less about the key," he snapped, pushing it away. He took his hand tightly in his own. "What did he say to you? What happened?"

"He wanted me to steal from you, and use the money to run away," he said. He sounded ashamed just to utter such a thing. "I refused, and... he attacked once my back was turned."

"Prick," he muttered sourly, pressing more kisses along the back of Aziraphale's hands. "Let me get something for that graze. It looks nasty."

"It's not so bad."

"Don't be a hero. Let me dote on you," he replied in exasperation, standing up.

"You always do," he replied with a dopey smile. 

Just before he left, Crowley let his eyes sweep him up and down. He gave an amused hum. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I envisioned you in my bed for the first time, you know," he said with a wry smile. 

"Get your mind out of the gutter, you sly old thing," he replied, smiling. "This is the second time we've had this talk tonight."

"All right, all right, I'm going," he said, holding up his hands in surrender and making for the door. "Don't go and get yourself in trouble again while I'm gone. I'll only rescue you so many times in one night, you know."

"No promises," he laughed.

Philo was the only one who dared to check the perimeter of the villa, making sure Cassius hadn't decided to hang around. Cato and Octavia were still trying to snap Augusta out of her stupor when he got back. The elder lady had been struck dumb by the altercation, unable to form a sentence longer than a few words in her shock. Philo sighed pityingly. She had been in this villa longer than anyone, and she had seen Cassius arrive here as a young boy over a decade ago. She'd seen him grow and mature and change over all these years... Seeing him leave under these circumstances must have been hard for her. 

Philo turned away, and suddenly noticed Crowley's shortsword still lying discarded on the floor. He carefully picked it up, holding the flat of the blade against his palm. It was smooth, cold, and wickedly sharp around the edges... in the lamplight, it almost looked like it was getting ready to burst into flames. Crowley would soon notice that he'd forgotten it, and he doubted anyone would want him coming down here again. This was their safe haven, someplace to go and hide away and pretend to be free for a little while. Their master's presence shattered that fiction. 

"I'm going to return this," he said, touching Cato lightly on the shoulder.

"Careful. He wasn't happy to be woken up so late at night," Octavia warned. She bit her lip. "I... I'm starting to wonder if I really did the right thing, bringing him down here like that. I just couldn’t think of who else to turn to."

"Don't be silly," Cato replied, giving her a nudge on the shoulder. “You were right, even he said so.”

"Cassius could have really hurt Aziraphale if Master Crowley hadn't arrived when he did," Philo said reassuringly. "You were very brave. I don't think many other slaves in the empire would have had the guts to go banging on their master's door like that."

"I guess we're just lucky that Master Crowley isn't so bad, really," she said, smiling lightly at the praise. "Deep down, I think he's even quite nice."

"I wouldn't say that to his face if I were you," Cato said.

She nodded in agreement, and Philo gave her a final pat on the shoulder as he turned to leave. In truth, there was another reason why he was so keen to return the sword: he wanted to know that Aziraphale was okay. He'd been completely out of it after Cassius fled, struggling to recover from being choked so hard, and Philo worried for his health. If he could catch a glimpse, even a small one, of him sitting up and smiling, then that would be enough. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like that smile. 

It was no secret to anyone that he'd been fond of their newest addition to the household ever since he'd arrived, but his own nerves had held him back from saying anything. Inviting him out for a walk had been the closest he came to admitting anything to him, but even then, he'd lost his nerve. Being with him, alone, in the twilight... it was too much. He'd never tried to woo anyone like him before, and it was a tall order right off the bat. Aziraphale was older, more distinguished, more confident in himself than any of Philo’s past interests... Besides, all their walk had done was spawn salacious rumours. It had probably only repulsed Aziraphale.

He looked in the triclinium first, supposing that Crowley may have laid him out on one of the sofas, or even the table. It was empty. With a discontented hum, he checked the adjoining room, and even the paving slabs outside. He scratched his beard, wondering where he could have gone. Surely, he wouldn't have taken him to...?

He turned around, taking a different route through the villa. He came to the right hall, and his heart jolted when he saw the light flooding out of his master's bedroom doorway at the end of the hall. The door was wide open, with a quiet, familiar voice coming from inside. He couldn't make out what they were saying. Swallowing nervously, he edged closer, his footfalls silent on the stone floor. The light from inside pushed his shadow out behind him, long and spindly, as he carefully peered around the edge of the doorframe. 

His eyes widened. Aziraphale was laid back on the bed, watching Crowley’s careful, purposeful movements as he tended to his grazes. Crowley was close, far closer than he needed to be, and fixed the man on his bed with a steady, unwavering gaze. Aziraphale seemed unperturbed. Crowley dabbed the graze on his chin with a clean cloth, which came away with freckles of blood across the fabric. Philo watched, unable to breathe, as he paused in his work. Crowley silently brushed his thumb over Aziraphale's cheek, edging closer, almost hesitant, glancing at his lips. Philo, wide-eyed, shook his head in denial, silently begging his master to come to his senses and back away. The plea went unheard. In one fluid movement, Crowley leaned down and kissed Aziraphale with deep, unapologetic relish.

Philo lurched away from the doorway, clutching the hilt of the sword to his chest. His lungs burned, but he still couldn't bring himself to draw a breath. Horrified, he turned and fled down the hall at a brisk walk, heart thundering against his ribs. This - this was - why hadn't Aziraphale said anything? Why hadn't he protested, pulled away, cried out? Was he still dazed? A wave of revulsion gripped him, disgusted with Master Crowley for taking advantage of him while he was vulnerable. He'd honestly thought he was above all that.

He abandoned the sword on the table in the triclinium, where he knew Crowley would find it. He raced down the steps into the servants' quarters, fully intending to report everything he'd seen to Augusta and start planning some sort of intervention. 

"Philo, you're back," Cato said when he reappeared. He was still knelt beside a wide-eyed Augusta, who was cradling a cup of water in her shaking hands. "She's not doing much better..."

"I - I - " he stammered, taking in Augusta's glazed-over expression anew. He’d never thought of her as old, not until now. Her age finally made her look frail and delicate, out-of-place among the rough stone walls and leftover fear hanging in the air. She'd already seen one of the cornerstones of her life torn away from her tonight... How could he tell her that their master had betrayed them, too? That he'd finally given in to his own insidious lust? That he’d picked on sweet, loveable Aziraphale, of all people, to satisfy his appetite?

Forcing down his panic and disgust, he gave a strained smile. "I'm sure she'll feel better by morning. We all will,” he said quietly. If he could, he’d handle this himself. No one needed to know what Crowley had done. Philo only hoped that, as long as someone reached out to him, Aziraphale could be saved.

Cato returned the smile weakly. "I hope you're right."


	8. Off In The Stars

Crowley woke up the next morning with his arms around Aziraphale. His eyelids fluttered open, almost surprised by the soft, warm body pressed so close to him, though he vividly remembered the events of the night before. Judging by the blanket of peace lying across the villa, he guessed that Cassius had not returned in the night. Carefully, he sat up slightly, peering over Aziraphale's shoulder carefully to get a look at his face. It was relaxed, tranquil, perfectly at ease with his cheek against the silk pillow... 

"I could get used to this," he mumbled to himself, resting his chin gently on his arm. 

"That makes two of us," Aziraphale replied, a sly smirk creeping into his face. He cracked open one eye, staring up at him cheekily.

"You're awake," he said in surprise, feeling like a fool. A pale blush crept onto his cheeks.

"I've been awake for a while. I was wondering when you might join me," he said, turning over to rest his head against his chest. "I was in no rush to leave. Your bed is far nicer than mine."

"Shame you can't stay," he said, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

"Isn't it just?" he mumbled. He was very conscious of Crowley's body against him, bare-chested, spreading an odd, faintly familiar warmth through him. His heart-rate picked up. "If only... if only there was just you and me in the world, and not a single soul besides."

He hummed in bittersweet amusement. "You'd get bored. There'd be no more little treats from the food markets, no more nice presents by skilled craftsmen," he replied, giving him a playful nudge. "No more new things to read."

"Yes, yes, I get your point," he replied. His eyes flicked across the sharp lines of his collarbones, the tenderness in his gaze... "I just wish we could - that we could - "

"I know, angel," he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head with a sigh. He rested his forehead against his. "I know."

They eventually pulled themselves out of bed, surprised to find that the sun had barely pulled itself over the horizon. In a way, that was very lucky. No one was around to see Aziraphale emerge, disheveled, from Crowley's bedroom. He tried to fix his hair as he headed for the kitchen for breakfast. Crowley offered to help, and almost insisted, but Aziraphale pointed out that they still had the fiction of slave-and-master to keep up, and people would start asking questions if they saw him helping. So, Crowley reluctantly retreated into the triclinium, warning him not to overstretch himself.

Aziraphale had almost gathered everything he needed for breakfast when Philo appeared in the kitchen. "Good morning," Aziraphale said with a weary smile. 

"You look terrible," he said flatly, leaning against the doorframe. Aziraphale touched his neck gently, which still throbbed with pain. His skin was mottled with dark bruises and angry red marks where Cassius's fingers had strained his skin. 

"Yes, I suppose I do," he said with an awkward chuckle.

"What happened last night?" he pressed, coming closer into the kitchen. He seemed flighty, paranoid, as if expecting someone to leap out of nowhere and attack him. Dark smudges had appeared under his eyes. 

"Ah. Yes, I suppose you would all want answers," he said, looking nervously toward the ceiling as if one of the gods might come down and save him from that whole conversation. He couldn't mention the key. "Er - well, it's difficult to say what exactly drove Cassius to do such a thing. After all, he was - "

"Not Cassius. That's not what I'm talking about," he interrupted, coming even closer. Aziraphale leaned backward slightly as he started to infringe on his personal space. "What about after? With Master Crowley?"

"Erm..." he said, a panicked blush finding his cheeks. "Well - well, funnily enough, not a lot. He tended my cuts and scrapes, ever-so-gently, and - and that was it."

"Was it?"

"Obviously," he said, becoming defensive. He took a step away from Philo, eyeing him with sudden suspicion. "What on earth has got you in such a twist, dear boy? You're acting like - like I'm the one at fault here!"

Philo took a deep breath, backing away to let the kitchen wall take his weight. He rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale, it's just... I saw him kiss you," he said hoarsely. Aziraphale's face fell. "Why didn't you say anything to us? We could have helped you."

"Helped...?" he said, a nervous squeak appearing in his voice as his mind began to flap.

"He's using you, Aziraphale! He's no better than Senator Hastur if he thinks he can just take what he wants from you," he hissed, keeping his voice low for fear of being overheard. "You don't have to just roll over and take it, for gods' sake. Do something! Defend yourself! I mean, what else did he do to you last night? Was it - did he... do worse?"

Aziraphale shook his head, wide-eyed in shock. "No, no, no," he said, holding up a finger insistently. "I'm afraid you've rather got the wrong end of the stick, dear boy."

"Then tell me what happened!" he cried in desperation.

Aziraphale glanced toward the triclinium in worry, wondering what Crowley would think if he overheard. The last thing he needed was for him to storm in now. "It was a kiss. Nothing more," he hissed under his breath, his brow creased in irritation. "And I have full faith that he will do no more. He isn't that sort of man, Philo."

"Really? It looked that way, last night," he said bitterly, crossing his arms. His jaw tightened, plucking the taught cords of his face and neck in agitation. A long, forceful sigh escaped his mouth. "How can you stand it?"

Aziraphale sickened. He looked down at his feet, the truth sitting in a heavy lump in his throat. He desperately wanted to come clean, to confess his love for Crowley with pride, but the risks were too great. "That's none of your business," he told Philo quietly. Guilt stirred inside him as he recalled the heat of the morning, the stirring sensations just beginning to wake up inside him as he reclined on Crowley's bed... 

Aziraphale gave a sharp gasp, snapped back to reality as Philo grabbed his hand. "It could be," he said, hardly an inch away from his face. Aziraphale jumped in surprise, shocked to feel his breath against his cheek. "Let me take you away from here. Please... come away with me."

"Good Lord," Aziraphale said breathlessly, pulling his hand free and stumbling out of his reach. He wasn't blind to the hurt in Philo's eyes, but it was nothing compared to the dread he felt at the idea of Crowley walking in on that scene. "No, out of the question. We're not having this conversation."

"Aziraphale - " he begged, trying to reach out to him again.

"That's enough, Philo. Not another word," he barked, harsher than he'd intended. He saw the heartbreak in his eyes, and forced his voice quieter again as he picked up the breakfast tray. "I've given you my answer already."

His knuckles turned white around the tray as he took a brisk walk into the triclinium, eager to leave Philo behind him. Crowley noticed the tremor in his hands as he came in. He watched him carefully as he set down the tray, gently grasped him by the waist before he could retreat to the opposite sofa. He pulled him down to sit beside him, and murmured softly: "Did something happen? I thought I heard you talking to someone."

"That was Philo. He - he saw us last night, dear," he replied. He wet his lips, deciding to leave out the part where he'd offered to steal him away from the villa entirely. "He thinks you're trying to make me into a concubine."

He gave a derisive hiss. "Ignore him," he said, picking up a bunch of grapes from the table. He plucked one, holding it up to Aziraphale's lips. "We know the truth. What does he matter?"

He ate the grape. "Yes, but... they're going to start talking about you, dear," he said, chewing pensively. "I can only imagine the awful things they'll come up with. I can't just run around telling them we're in love to set their minds at rest, can I?"

He hummed in agreement, hating to see him getting so worked up over what they thought of him. He played with his blond curls, pressing soft kisses against his hairline until he felt him begin to relax. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll figure something out. You stop worrying."

"Thank you," he said quietly, running his fingertips across his collarbones. In moments like this, he wondered how he'd found himself here. Life could be fleeting and painful for slaves, and more often than not, masters passed around their servants like commodities. By some divine stroke of luck, Aziraphale had found one of the only rich men in all of Italy whose heart hadn't turned to stone. 

"You are very much like your uncle sometimes, you know," Aziraphale said, tracing patterns on his skin. 

"Am I?" he said, looking down at him. There was a nervous edge to his voice.

"Well, you're certainly younger... and much more handsome," he said with a grin. Crowley puffed his chest out slightly at that. "But you have his good heart. He was always a nice man, too, deep down."

He scoffed. "Oh, don't you start. I'm not nice," he said, wrinkling his nose. Aziraphale began to laugh. "What? I'm not!"

"You are. Come to think of it, now I'm looking again, there's a family resemblance between you two as well," he said, reaching up to cup Crowley's cheek. The redhead suddenly tensed up, taking a sharp breath. Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Crowley? What is it?"

"Tell me what you mean," he said, holding his hand against his cheek. "How are we similar?"

"Erm..." he said, with a slightly baffled frown. "Your cheekbones are the same, I think, and the line of your jaw... Why the sudden interest, dear?"

"Just making sure you never had a thing for my uncle too," he joked. 

"Crowley," he said chidingly, knowing that wasn't the truth. 

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Aziraphale... would you think less of me, if I wasn't - if I wasn't who I said I was?" he asked. He didn't open his eyes, not even as Aziraphale's hands gently cradled his face. He couldn't back out now. 

"Never," he replied, pressing a kiss to the centre of his forehead. He rested his head against his, with his hands laced together behind his neck. Crowley took a breath that seemed to burn against the inside of his throat, terror curling in his chest as he begged whatever god was listening that Aziraphale was telling the truth.

"He was my father," he whispered, screwing up his face as he waited for Aziraphale to reel back in shock and disgust. He wouldn't have held it against him. After a long moment of silence, he cracked open one eye. "Angel?"

"Your uncle... was actually your father?" he said slowly, mulling over the revelation calmly, without pulling away from him. "Hm. That explains a lot."

Crowley sat up sharply. "It does?"

"He was _very_ fond of your mother, dear," he said with a knowing look. "More so than a man really should be of his brother's wife. I must confess, I did have my suspicions that something might have happened between them... though I never imagined that it would be you."

He gave a huff of disbelief. "You never thought...?"

"Nope," he replied, very pleased with himself. "I suppose your mother never told Antonius Senior that you weren't his...?"

"Never," he said with a shudder. "She only told me after his death. She wanted to make sure I inherited his estate before anyone knew, even me. I've been terrified of anyone finding out for years, and - and I never told my uncle that I knew he was my father. He and my mother didn't speak after my father's death. I s'pose they thought it'd invite too much attention."

"I am grateful you told me," he said, pulling him into a kiss so soft, so sincere, that Crowley released a small moan against his lips. He pulled back with a smile. "It changes nothing, of course. I shan't breathe a word to anyone."

He gave a breathy laugh. "I thought you knew, to be honest," he admitted sheepishly. He swallowed thickly. "That's why I kept you so close when you first arrived. I was trying to keep you quiet, y'know... in case you knew too much."

He winced again, wondering if that might be the last straw. The confession, the bare truth of the lie that their whole relationship had been founded on... his heart stopped when he saw the gentle, undisturbed smile still lingering on Aziraphale lips. 

"There's really no need to panic, my dear," he said in an undertone, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "For all you pretend to be awful, and rush into things, and fret about anything and nothing... I still love you. What does lineage even mean to a slave, anyway?"

"You're not a slave," he reminded him, his eyelids fluttering closed as he rested their foreheads together. 

"A slave to my passions, perhaps," he quipped, making him open his eyes in surprise. 

"Angel!" he cried, shocked and impressed. He cast an eye over him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're flirting with me."

"How scandalous," he retorted, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him into a deep, loving embrace, twin smiles curling their lips as they held one another close.

Life progressed slowly without Cassius around. Philo picked up the slack in the fields, and came in after each long day trailing dirt and and roots. As far as Aziraphale could tell, Philo hadn't breathed a word to anyone about what he'd seen, probably hoping to save Aziraphale the embarrassment. He knew it couldn't last forever. 

Crowley was doting on him every moment they spent together, sharing his smile and talking animatedly about everything from his teenaged antics to his exploits as a charioteer. Someone was bound to notice eventually, especially considering Aziraphale's steadily growing desire to finally lay with Crowley. Spending even one night in his room had sparked something to life in him; it had begun as a small fascination, though he could feel it quickly mounting into a ravenous lust. He didn't want to wait forever. Soon, he'd have to choose what he wanted most from life in the villa, whatever the consequences would be. He'd planned to avoid tainting Crowley's image for the others, but he also wanted Crowley for himself... He was well aware he could not have both, and ultimately, the choice was his. Crowley would not initiate anything until Aziraphale told him he was ready. 

The Vigiles failed to track Cassius down. A representative visited about three times to update Crowley on the search before it was called off, to everyone's relief. Augusta was especially conflicted about Cassius's fate. She was horrified by the attack, but the last thing she wanted was to see him killed for what he'd done. It was better that he'd simply vanished.

"You wouldn't really have killed Cassius, would you?" Aziraphale asked one night over dinner. "If they'd found him."

"Hm?" Crowley said, looking up from his wine. He mulled it over for a moment. "Might have done. I'd certainly have cut him into little pieces if I'd caught him with his hands around your neck."

He cringed. "Don't say that."

"What? You asked," he said with a shrug. He took a large mouthful of bread, swallowing it seemingly without chewing at all before continuing. "Why do you care, anyway?"

"He wanted to be free. He just... went about it the wrong way," he said with a shrug. He chewed thoughtfully on a lump of venison, his brow weighed down with a guilty look. "I suppose I rather take my freedom for granted these days..."

Crowley tilted his head, watching him with interest. Before Aziraphale, he didn't really have much of a clue about how slaves saw the world. "Did you ever think about it? Before I released you, I mean," he asked, leaning forward curiously.

"I wondered what it might be like sometimes. I was born into slavery, you see," he said. He poured himself another cup of wine, his eyes glazed over with memories. "My mother was kidnapped from her village by roman soldiers. I was born in Rome three months later."

"Kidnapped?" he echoed, choking a little on his drink. 

"What? Where do you think slaves come from?" he said dryly. He shot him a reproachful glance. "We don't grow on trees, you know."

He nodded sheepishly, nibbling on a piece of cheese and working himself up to speaking. "Do you know where you're from?" he asked cautiously. "Or... where you should have been from, if your mother hadn't been brought here."

He smiled sadly. "Britain," he said. "My mother, gods rest her soul, used to tell me about her homeland, and my father who was left behind. She especially loved the open grasslands. She said it was quite beautiful."

"She was right," he said, immediately arresting Aziraphale's attention. "I've seen Britain, when I was younger. My family's owned land there ever since it was conquered. It's an under-appreciated country."

Aziraphale beamed. "You think so?" he said, with a dreamy sigh. "I'd love to see it one day, at least once in my life. I've heard it's much less hot than Italy."

He laughed. "Yeah, you could say that. Freezing as fuck is closer to the truth," he said. "No blazing sunshine, lots of rain, grey days, high winds..."

"Sounds like bliss. Do you know how many sunburns I've had living in this country?" Aziraphale complained. He rubbed his arm with a pout. "I have very sensitive skin."

"Aw, come here, you poor thing," he said, sticking out his bottom lip mockingly and holding his arms open. With a haughty sniff, Aziraphale skirted around the table and lay down in his arms, relaxing as Crowley began to rub his shoulders. The mood shifted again, becoming more somber as he released a deep sigh, fraught with tension. "You're very far from home, angel..."

"I am rather, aren't I?" he replied distantly. It stabbed at Crowley's heart, filling him with intense guilt for a crime he hadn't committed... Only, he had, hadn't he? Even if he didn't tear Aziraphale's mother away from her homeland himself, he had still kept her son. 

"I'm sorry life turned out this way for you, angel," he said, shamefully avoiding his gaze. "If I could have changed it - "

"Hush, you," he murmured, leaning up to kiss him. He frowned when Crowley pulled back, not allowing their lips to meet. "Crowley?"

"I don't deserve you," he rasped. His skin burned with guilt. He wanted to hold him, to bring him close and never let go, but that was exactly the problem. Aziraphale wasn't his to keep. 

"Now that is pure poppycock," he shot back, his anger startling Crowley from his self-pity. Aziraphale crossed his arms, scowling. "You set me free, Crowley. I chose to stay, by your side. You can't have forgotten already!"

He tentatively met his gaze. "No. I haven't."

"Then stop trying to torture yourself, you old fool," he said, softening slightly, carefully taking Crowley's face in his hands. "Let yourself be loved, for Heaven’s sake..."

He leaned into his touch, savouring it. The knot of shame in his belly was beginning to unravel, revealing the sweet and tender emotions that had been trapped inside. He nodded. "Okay, angel," he murmured. "I'll try."

A quiet, relieved sigh escaped Aziraphale's lips. He closed the gap between them, bringing Crowley into a kiss that he eagerly reciprocated. For a long time, it was slow and unhurried. Crowley was barely cognisant of falling backwards, and of Aziraphale moving to lie on top of him. Something tugged at his toga, and he abruptly realised that Aziraphale was grasping fistfuls of the black silk as he deepened the kiss. His fingers traced experimentally up the length of his spine beneath his white clothes before tangling themselves in his hair, gripping his curls tightly. Aziraphale moaned into the kiss. He pressed his weight down harder, rolling his hips, drawing a grunt from Crowley's throat.

He pulled back with a gasp. "Angel," he said breathlessly, wide-eyed in surprise, his cheeks warm and his hands sliding down to rest on his waist.

"Crowley, my dear," he replied sweetly, repeating the action. Crowley gave another half-stifled moan, his nails digging into his skin, pressing through his toga. Aziraphale leaned down over him with a hot, breathy whisper spilling over his lips. "I'm ready."

"Ngh... you sure?" he said, desperately trying to resist the temptation to arch his back and press his hips up against him. 

"Completely," he said, running his fingers through Crowley's hair. "I want you, my dear."

A lovesick grin overtook Crowley's face. "Whatever you like, angel," he said dotingly, finally allowing his hands to begin roaming over him...

Octavia woke up first the next morning. She didn't open her eyes for a few minutes, basking in the silence of the room. There wasn’t so much as a mouse to disturb the stillness. She sighed. Knowing that time was short in a morning, her eyelids flickered open, and she arched her back in a long, luxurious stretch. She sat up, rubbing the heel of her hand over her eye. Her gaze dragged lazily over the familiar shapes of the room. Cato sprawled out like a starfish across his bed, at serious risk of falling out. Philo had kicked off his blanket at some point in the night. Augusta’s was still wrapped tightly around her, with her back facing the wall. Aziraphale was -

He wasn’t there.

She did a double take, her jaw going suddenly slack. His bed by the stairs was neatly made, exactly how he’d left it the morning before. She scrambled to her feet, running to the bed as if he might suddenly materialise there. The sheets were cold. No one had laid on them, not recently at least... Her stomach twisted; he hadn’t come back at all last night. Not knowing what else to do, she threw herself down beside Augusta’s bed, shaking her awake.

Augusta groaned, opening her eyes blearily, scowling at the girl. "What? What's the matter?" 

"It's Aziraphale. He isn’t here," she said, voice cracking as she jabbed a finger at the bed near the stairs. “I - I don’t think he came back last night.”

She sat up sharply, her face grave. "You're certain he didn't just wake up early?"

"He could have, I guess," she said frantically. Her distress was starting to wake the other two. "But - but why would he have gone upstairs before anyone else? He doesn't do that."

"Hey... it’s early. What's the fuss?" Cato complained, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. Philo seemed more reluctant to lift his head.

"Aziraphale's missing," Augusta replied, standing and dusting herself off.

Philo pushes himself up on his knees, looking toward the empty bed. He heaved a sigh, averting his eyes with a distinct downturn on his lips. He couldn’t help but feel partially responsible. Part of him had wanted to believe Aziraphale, when he said Master Antonius wouldn’t go any further than he already had. How naive. 

"I... I don’t think he’s missing,” he croaked. One by one, their gazes fell upon him. He fidgeted uncomfortably, like a guilty man on trial. “Master Crowley, he - well, he likes him, doesn’t he? Maybe too much.”

Octavia glared at him like a woman betrayed. “Shut up,” she barked, clenching her fists. “Don’t say that. You don’t know that!”

“I do, actually,” he said, hanging his head. He clasped his hands together until his knuckles turned white. “I - I just didn't say anything. I thought Aziraphale would come round and speak up for himself when he was ready, but... he knew. He knew full well that Master Crowley wanted something more from him."

"What are you talking about?" Augusta asked sternly, wrapping a comforting arm around Octavia. They knelt on the floor beside one another, each one propping the other up. No one wanted to hear what he was saying. 

"I've seen Master Crowley make advances on him, all right?" he said, finally ripping his gaze from his hands to look them in the eyes. "I tried to get Aziraphale to do something about it, but he wouldn't listen to me. He didn't believe anything bad would happen, but I swear, I tried - I tried to warn him."

"He refused to tell us?" Augusta said, speaking through the lump in her throat. She felt Cato’s comforting hand grip her shoulder. "He told me he'd confide in us, if it came to this! He swore it!”

"Yeah, well. This is Aziraphale. He'd even trust a snake if it promised not to bite," he said bitterly. He curled his fists around his thin bedsheets, furious with the world, but especially with the man living upstairs. "Now look what happened. He's just become Master Antonius's new toy."

"By the gods, Philo, calm down," Cato said reproachfully, shooting him a hard glare. "You're upsetting Octavia."

Philo came to his senses then, finally taking notice of the tears reddening Octavia’s eyes. His face softened, and he hung his head again in shame. "Right. Okay, I'm sorry," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just... this didn't need to happen. If I'd done more for him, maybe - "

"Stop. Stop it," Augusta said fiercely. "This is not your fault. Master Crowley chose to - to take this course of action. All we can do now is our best, to support Aziraphale. We can't let him be alone in this."

“Hear hear,” Cato agreed morosely. They nodded, bowing their heads in a moment of silent vigil. Whatever the case, they would be there for their friend. 

Upstairs, worlds away from the somber atmosphere in the basement, Aziraphale lay against Crowley's chest. A smile still lingered on his face, unable to shake the warm afterglow of the night before. A tingle still seemed to lie over his skin, making him wriggle in satisfaction every now and then. Crowley also lay awake, tracing intricate, loopy patterns on his bare shoulders and down his back, skirting around the edges of the love bites he'd left along the way. 

"Angel," he said eventually, deciding to get a word in before Aziraphale dozed off again. "You gave me a thought last night."

"I know I did," he replied smugly, walking his fingers playfully up his chest.

"Not those thoughts," he said with a chuckle, taking his hand. "I mean, while we were talking before that, about Britain."

"What about it?" 

"I still own land out there, you know, with a house," he said carefully. He swallowed his nerves, taking a deep breath to force out the words. "It's much smaller than this villa, only made for a very small family..."

"What are you saying?" he said, sitting up to look him in the eye.

"We could, you know... go off together. Move out there, leave all this behind," he said softly, rubbing gentle circles across his skin. Aziraphale gasped.

“Go off... together?” he echoed in a wavering voice, his eyebrows creeping higher as the implications bombarded him. 

“Hear me out. What's so great about being near Rome, really? It's all pompous arseholes and army bureaucrats who can't keep their opinions to themselves,” he said, rolling his eyes. He cast an eye around his room, barely decorated, barely used. He’d have liked to have Aziraphale for the first time in someplace cosier, more lived-in, more loved... 

"But your whole life is here," he protested, shock written clearly across his face.

"Yes, you are," he said lovingly, his eyes swimming in shameless adoration. 

"Oh, Crowley..."

"We'd be happier in Britain, angel, I swear,” he said, clasping one of his hands in both of his. “I’ll take you there. Anywhere you want to go, I can take you. It doesn’t even have to be Britain.”

“Good lord,” he whispered, his eyes going unfocused as those words began to overwhelm him. “What about the others, downstairs? What would become of them?”

"I'll set them free. I'll set them all free," he said, growing more fervent by the second. “Just think about it, Aziraphale. You could see everything your mother ever described to you. You could finally go home... I want to take you there, angel.”

He fell silent, his breathing shallow and shaky as he awaited a response. Conflicted emotions danced over Aziraphale’s face. "That... that sounds... quite lovely," he said hesitantly, a bright smile flaring into life on his face as the realisation slowly sank in. He suddenly lunged forward, kissing him hard. 

Crowley pulled away, grinning. "Is that a yes?"

"Of course it's a yes, you silly man," he cried in delight, swinging one leg across to straddle his lap and pinning him down again on the bed, drunk on joy and the sound of his laughter. “Britain it is, then.”


	9. The Morning After

Aziraphale eventually got around to re-dressing himself, trying to arrange the cloth to cover up the love bites on his shoulders. He twisted around a few times in an attempt to make sure they were hidden, fussily tugging at the toga.

"Crowley, dear, am I covered?" he asked, facing his still-naked lover, who was barely covered by the thin sheets. 

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Not sure. Give us a twirl," he said, rolling his wrist. Aziraphale turned around, pausing to let him get a look at the back of his neck. There was a long pause.

"Crowley?" he said. "Well?"

"Hm?"

He looked over his shoulder with a pout. Crowley's eyes were not on his shoulders. "You scoundrel, you only did that to look at my rump!" he said, turning around again and crossing his arms. 

Crowley grinned wolfishly, caught red-handed. "Sorry, angel," he said, stretching out on the bed with a contented hum. "Couldn't help myself."

He clucked his tongue, rolling his eyes and deciding that the love bites were probably covered. "Do watch where you're staring, dear," he reminded him, leaning down to give him a peck on the lips. "The others will have noticed my absence last night. They will talk."

His expression curdled. "Right. Forgot about that," he said. He reached out to give his hand a comforting squeeze. "Try not to think about it. I'll start arranging things for the trip to Britain, and you won't have to listen to them for long."

He sighed, eyes angled toward the floor sadly. "I don't resent them, you know. I shan't be glad to leave them behind," he said. He wrapped both his hands around Crowley's trying to assuage the anxiety he could see just barely hidden in his eyes. "But I will be glad to start a new home, with you."

He leaned in, pressing his lips against the back of his hand for a prolonged moment. "I'll do my best for you, angel."

"I know, my love," he said with an unguarded smile. He shot a reluctant glance toward the door, taking his hands away. "I'm sorry, dear, I really must be off. This is no doubt starting to look very suspicious."

"That's because it is," he said dryly.

Aziraphale crept through the villa, expecting to hear someone in the nearby rooms going about their daily tasks. Oddly, he heard nothing. Brow creased, he poked his head into a few rooms, all of which were vacant. It was late enough in the morning that everyone should be up by now... There must be more field work to do than he realised, he thought. Everyone was probably pitching in to ease the load on Philo. Worries assuaged, he hopped down the basement stairs, hoping he could get in a quick wash before anyone noticed he was back. 

The moment his foot hit level ground, a weight slammed into his chest. He gave a wheeze of shock, looking down to see Octavia hugging him tightly around the chest. "Why hello there, dear," he said with a nervous laugh, giving her an awkward pat on the back. "You're - ah, awfully friendly this morning."

She sniffed, pulling back to reveal her bloodshot eyes. His smile fell. "Are you okay?" she said, wiping a tear from under her eye.

Aziraphale's stomach dropped. "Octavia? My dear girl, what's the matter?" 

"Are you okay?" she repeated hoarsely, giving him a light shake by the shoulders. 

"Yes, yes, I'm - I'm perfectly fine. Absolutely tickety-boo, in fact," he said, his eyes still searching her face in befuddlement, as if the cause of her distress might be written in the tear tracks on her cheeks. This had all come on so suddenly.

"You're lying," she said, breaking into a sob and shaking her head. She looked toward Philo, who sat quietly on a nearby bed, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Am I?" Aziraphale said in exasperation as she backed away, pacing restlessly up and down the room. Everyone was here, all looking equally as uncomfortable as each other. He looked at each one in turn, feeling completely out of the loop. The sickening realisation caught him: they’d already put two and two together. 

"We know, Aziraphale," Philo said quietly, staring at his clenched hands, confirming his fears. "Master Antonius had you last night."

He gulped. "H - had me?" he said, a furious blush taking hold. He panicked. "Rubbish. No. I've never heard such tosh."

With a scoff, Cato stood up, taking three broad strides in his direction before he had a chance to stumble backward. He grabbed a fistful of his toga, tugging it aside. "I suppose these are just _tosh_ too, huh?" he said, with the prominent, reddened imprints of Crowley's teeth on full show. 

He snatched back the fabric, covering the bites again. "Those - those are - " he stammered, stomach churning. Unable to summon up a decent excuse, he abandoned the attempt altogether. "It's not what it looks like!"

Augusta stood up, brushing her way through the mounting tension. "Aziraphale," she said calmly, resting her hands gently on his shoulders. The room fell silent, making Aziraphale squirm under the sudden focus of attention. "Please don't lie to us. No one blames you for what happened."

 _But I started it. I was the one who seduced him. It was my own choice,_ he thought desperately, frozen in her agonisingly sympathetic gaze. 

"We'll take care of your usual jobs for today," she continued, cupping his cheek in an unmistakably maternal gesture. He almost shied away, a mixture of guilt and anxiety burning a hole in his chest. "Make sure you stay close to one of us. I'll make some excuses for you, if Master Antonius starts asking after you."

He inhaled sharply. "No!" he cried. "There's - there's really no need for all the fuss. We can just go on as normal, can't we? Yes? Forget this whole to-do even happened...?"

"By the gods, Aziraphale..." Philo said under his breath. The whole situation lay heavy on him, his shoulders slumped under the weight. "Just let us do this for you."

He gave a pained noise. His eyes darted around, looking anywhere for support, and found none. Cato had an arm around Octavia, who stared at him imploringly with red-rimmed eyes. They were frightened. They just didn't understand, and a sense of guilt coiled deep in his gut as he clamped his mouth shut. He couldn't tell them the truth, not ever; if not for his own sake, then for Crowley's. A month ago, maybe he'd have trusted them enough to come clean, but now? The last time he'd thought he could trust one of them, he'd nearly been choked to death. He couldn't afford to risk letting the secret to get out. 

"Very well then," he said, sagging down in defeat. Only a few more months, he told himself, and Crowley would take him away from all this. Life would be simpler. He would be free. "Do what you must."

Crowley lay in bed for a long while after Aziraphale left, dreamily reliving the night before his thoughts faded into imagining their new life in Britain. The house over there was perfect for the two of them; low maintenance, small, secluded, robust... It was only ever intended for short-term living, in case one of the Antonius family ever had business in that corner of the empire, but there was nothing stopping him from taking up permanent residence. Face-down on his bed, with Aziraphale's scent still clinging to the sheets, he could close his eyes and picture himself halfway across the globe, utterly carefree. The house in Britain had a veranda, with a beautiful bench for the rare sunny days, and no doubt Aziraphale would pass many any hour out there, reading. Crowley wanted to take up gardening once he arrived, perhaps even grow his own food. How hard could it be?

He eventually dragged himself off the bed, shrugging on some fresh clothes and emerging from his bedroom with a dopey smile still on his face. He didn't even notice it was there. He'd left it too long to bother with breakfast, and instead headed over to the bathhouse to rinse off the sweat from last night's exertions. On his way, he caught a flash of movement in an adjacent room. 

With a grin, he stopped, poking his head inside... only to find that the white toga actually belonged to Cato. "Oh. It's you," he said, with a note of disappointment.

Cato turned, immediately standing ramrod straight. "Sir," he said curtly. He angled his eyes firmly at the ground, avoiding his gaze. 

Crowley's brow furrowed for a moment before shaking it off. "Right. Sort out a bath for me, will you?" he said, and was met with a nod. Crowley’s smile was quickly bouncing back, reappearing on his face. "There's a good man."

With that, he flashed an even broader grin and disappeared again. Cato glared after him, sullenly throwing aside the broom. He trudged out to the bathhouse, setting about filling the bath and heating the water. Master Crowley's wide smile lingered in his mind, insulting and cruel now he knew what had put it there. He'd never seen him with such a happy expression before. 

"Bastard," he muttered under his breath, aching with sympathy for Aziraphale. He at least hoped that it hadn’t hurt too badly.

He jumped as he heard footsteps approaching. He quickly busied himself preparing towels, pretending that he hadn’t just been bad-mouthing his master. "Thanks, Cato," Crowley said, seeing the steam rising from the water. "You can go."

He blinked, surprised to be thanked so sincerely. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he walked away, suddenly feeling conflicted. Crowley seemed softer now, more genuine, as if he'd begun to drop his guard. Something had changed in him, subtle but blindingly obvious. He glanced over his shoulder, as if he might see the answer stood at the door to the bathhouse. All he saw was Crowley's bare back as he began to wriggle out of his toga, and the angry red scratch marks across his pale skin. He sharply turned away, his stomach giving a nauseating wrench as he sped up his retreat from the bathing room, with a fresh wave of pity for Aziraphale breaking over him.

Crowley was blind to his simmering anger. He lowered himself into the water, hissing in satisfaction as the heat began to work on his muscles. His thoughts were buzzing around his angel, even now. He'd looked so beautiful last night, the contours of his body outlined by moonlight, soft and touchable with a face utterly lost in the throes of love... the sensation burning in Crowley’s belly was half arousal, half adoration. He sighed dreamily, sinking deeper into the water. He wished Aziraphale was with him now. His comforting, prim voice would have made the moment perfect. 

He submerged his head beneath the water for a moment, breaking back to surface with a deep gasp. He shook his head, scattering droplets from his hair and wiping his eyes. He needed that. With his head now slightly clearer, he turned his mind to more practical matters. Somehow, he needed to uproot his whole life and move it to a tiny island just off the continent. It would take some planning. The first thing to do was arrange for someone to clean the house in Britain until it was liveable, ready for them to move in right away. The next thing was to start packing his belongings and tying up loose ends in Rome. After that it would be easy-peasy; release the slaves, hop on a boat, and sail off into the sunset. Perfect.

After another lengthy daydream, half-composed of actual plans to enact, he dragged himself from the water. He dried himself off, redressed, and headed back into the villa with damp hair and the beginnings of a plan in mind. 

He sat down at his desk in the tablinum, immediately drafting a note to send to Britain. If he sent a little money ahead of him, an old associate of his would be happy to have his future home cleaned and preserved until he arrived. He put it aside for a moment, taking out some maps and records to sort through the practicalities in his head. When he eventually managed to hash out a plan, he wrote himself a quick to-do list, and stared at it for a long time. He was really doing this, wasn't he? A helpless smile curled onto his lips, feeling suddenly, shockingly free. He didn't know why he didn't decide to just up sticks and leave Italy before.

Turning around to face the chest where he kept most of his coins, he reached for the chain under his toga. Only... it wasn't there. He felt a flash of panic for a moment before slapping his palm against his forehead. "Right. Gave it to Aziraphale," he reminded himself. "Forgot about that..."

He stood up, stepping out of the tablinum and trying to think where he might be. He tried the kitchen first, which was empty, before stepping into the triclinium. The table hadn't been cleared last night, what with he and Aziraphale being... distracted. Augusta was just stacking the plates as he walked in. 

"Augusta, just the woman," he said cheerily. She looked up, eyeing him with cold detachment. "Where's Aziraphale?"

Her face twitched. "I don't know, sir," she replied evenly, and resumed her work as if he wasn't even there.

"Don't you sort out the work for the day?" he asked incredulously. She'd never been like this before, not in all the years he'd known her. "I’d have thought you’d know.”

"Unfortunately, today, I do not, Master Antonius," she said curtly. She picked up a trayful of plates and stepped around him carefully. "Will that be all?"

"I s'pose," he said, watching her as she left, his brow creased. When she was out of earshot, he hummed discontentedly. "Well... that was a thing."

They'd probably figured out what had happened the night before, he reasoned with himself. They weren't wrong to treat him coldly, in that case. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry at them for being like this, even if it did sting a bit. He'd be none too happy, either, if he thought someone had used their power to abuse Aziraphale. His skin crawled at the thought. Hoping they'd at least spared Aziraphale's feelings on the matter, he continued his search. 

He found Octavia in the bathhouse, making sure the water was drained and the tiles were clean. She was very absorbed in watching the water level going down, slowly forming a whirlpool over the plug in the bottom. He made his way over to her, assuming she'd already heard his footsteps.

"Octavia - " he began.

She let out a shrill cry, spinning around in surprise. With a squeak of sandals against wet tiles, she lost her footing, and began to topple backwards over the rim of the bath. "Shit!" he cried, lunging forward and grabbing her arm. For an instant, they were frozen, with only Crowley's grip keeping her from a nasty fall into the deep stone pool. He pulled her sharply away from the edge, making her fall forward against his chest. She leapt back like she'd been stung. 

He let go as soon as she did. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Taking deep, shaky breaths, she nodded. She edged further and further back, hoping he wouldn't notice her trying to stay out of arm's reach. "F - fine. Thank you, sir," she said, mouth dry. After what had happened to Aziraphale, she’d developed an unspoken fear that she might be the next on his list. 

"Right. Sorry about that, it was my fault," he said, eyeing the slippery floor underfoot. He'd given her quite the fright. Her brow furrowed, surprised that he'd admitted it so willingly. "Look, I only came in to ask if you knew where Aziraphale is. I need him for something."

She blanched. "Az - Aziraphale? He's - erm - he's busy. Doing something," she stuttered, wringing her hands together behind her back. They'd all agreed that no matter what Crowley said, no one would help him find Aziraphale if he asked. 

"Doing something _where?"_ he said patiently. 

"Around. In the villa," she said, looking down at her feet. "Or maybe in the allotment."

He rolled his eyes, sensing that she would be no help. "Thanks," he said dryly. He paused before he left. "Oh, and Octavia? Sit down for a few minutes until you've calmed down. I won't be here to catch you if you slip again."

She nodded and hugged herself tightly as he left. Doing as she was told, she took a seat against one of the pillars and took deep breaths, waiting for her heartbeat to calm down. She stared at the rim of the bath, set deep into the floor... she'd have had a nasty head wound, at best, if she'd fallen in, especially with the water now as shallow as it was. Any other day, she'd have been grateful to her master for saving her, but today... she struggled to find it in her heart. 

Aziraphale had become part of her life, like a father to her. In some ways, she'd once thought the same of Crowley, having spent most of her teen years living in his house. She'd never felt threatened by him before, not once she settled into the villa and realised he wasn't that type of master. Or at least, she'd thought he wasn't. She put her head in her hands, swallowing back the urge to cry. She'd looked up to Master Crowley. She'd thought he was a good man, and now... now she just felt like a fool. 

Philo was the next to encounter their master. He'd been feeding the horses when he spotted the dark-clad figure sauntering around the edge of the field toward the stables. He sharply turned away, focusing on patting the horse's nose. Who cares if he was accused of slacking? He didn't give a damn what his master thought of him anymore. What worried him more, though, was that Aziraphale was working with him today. He and Cato had just gone to fill some water buckets for the horses' trough, and they'd be back any moment. Hit with sudden anxiety, Philo dropped his work and hurried over to meet Crowley as he neared the building.

"Can I help you, sir?" he said, gripping his own wrist tightly behind his back. He might have been tempted to strike him otherwise. 

"Uh, yeah. Have you seen Aziraphale?" he asked, vaguely surprised to have been approached so quickly. He noticed the way Philo's shoulders stiffened.

"No, sir," he said. His jaw was tightly shut.

"Are you sure? He's not inside," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "If he isn't out here, where else could he be?"

Philo's eyes darted nervously back and forth. "I did see him this morning, actually, I just - I just don't know what Augusta told him to do today."

"Nor does Augusta, apparently," he said accusingly. He hadn't forgotten Philo's little crush on Aziraphale. Even if he was no threat, something about the idea made him feel strangely possessive. "You're not hiding him from me, are you, Philo?"

"No. Sir," he said rigidly. 

"Good," he said, the tension suddenly beginning to unfurl from his shoulders. He pointed at something by the other corner of the stables, a smug grin curling his lips. "Because he's right behind you."

Philo whirled around with a gasp. Aziraphale and Cato had just rounded the corner of the stables, laden with buckets of water and chatting to one another. He looked desperately between them and Crowley, who was staring at Aziraphale with half-hooded eyes. He leaned in close to Philo's ear, muttering: "Good thing you kept me talking, eh? I might have missed him otherwise."

Crowley brushed past him, feeling the spiteful glare on his back. He didn't care so much about that. If Philo kept his distance from Aziraphale, he had no reason to do anything more than push his buttons. He couldn’t help himself sometimes. 

It was Cato's horrified expression that made Aziraphale finally look up, and see Crowley coming toward them. He smiled. "Hello, sir," he said politely. He put a special, but almost inaudible, emphasis on the title. Crowley smirked at their little private joke. 

"Aziraphale, I need to borrow you for a moment," he said, nodding back toward the house. "Drop the bucket and let's go."

The bucket was halfway to the ground before Cato protested. "But sir! We need him here," he said. He faltered when his amber eyes snapped onto him, but continued stubbornly. "Aziraphale's stronger than me, and - and Philo will need help with the heavy lifting."

"What heavy lifting?" Aziraphale said innocently, tilting his head. Cato gawked at him like he'd gone mad.

"Whatever this mysterious heavy lifting is, clearly it can wait," Crowley said, smirking amusedly at Aziraphale's antics. He turned, throwing a final command over his shoulder as he started back toward the villa. "Aziraphale, with me."

He put down the bucket and began to follow Crowley without any complaint. Cato and Philo stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the two figures ventured back toward the house. "He'll be okay," Cato told Philo, though he didn't sound certain. "Master Antonius won't do anything in the middle of the day, not when everyone could hear."

"Wouldn't he?" Philo replied cynically, picking up the bucket Aziraphale had left behind. 

Aziraphale could hardly take his eyes off Crowley on the way back inside. The gentle breeze ruffled his hair, the very same that he'd been pulling on the night before, and the usual sullen tension that tightened his features was gone. He looked peaceful. He'd only ever seen his face this way while he was asleep, and he couldn't help but admire how much nicer it was with his eyes open and a light smile lifting the edges of his lips. They didn't talk until they reached the tablinum, and the door had closed behind them.

Aziraphale leaned up to kiss him the moment they were alone. "Lovely to see you again, my dear."

He gave a dopey smile. "Likewise," he said. He rested his forehead against his. "I notice they've been covering for you. They've had me on a wild goose chase all morning."

He chuckled sadly. "They mean well. They're only trying to look after me," he said, running his hands up and down his arms.

"Yeah, well, so am I," he said, slipping his hand under the neck of his tunic. He took longer than he needed to, his sharp eyes watching Aziraphale’s breath hitch before his hand closed around the key. He held it between them for a moment, in the small nook of space still left between them. "I'm going to need to borrow this."

"And here I thought you were only interested in my body," he said sardonically, and slipped his head out of the chain.

Crowley chuckled, pressing a kiss to temple. “You had me at hello, angel,” he said. “The sex is just a bonus, really.”

Aziraphale preened while he took the key, kneeling down beside the chest and unlocking it. He rustled around in it for a while, taking out small bags of coins and various papers. Aziraphale took up Crowley's usual seat by his desk, idly looking over the paperwork on his desk. "My, you've been a busy bee," he said, looking at the to-do list and the letter made out to his colleague in Britain. "Eager to leave?"

"Course. Won't be long now until we're going."

"You only just came up with the idea last night, dear," he said chidingly. "Don't get too ahead of yourself. These things take time."

"What, and let that bearded bloke keep sniffing around what's not his business? Not happening," he said distastefully.

"Philo?" he said, brow furrowing. "He's just worried. It's nothing more."

"Pfft. Don't think I haven't noticed how he looks at you," he said, lips curling as he stood back up, slamming the lid of the chest back down. "Wouldn't be surprised if he went and heroically offered to whisk you away, somewhere that Big Bad Master Crowley can't get at you anymore."

Aziraphale gulped, avoiding direct eye contact. Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Well, fuck me. He actually has, hasn't he?" he said. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't take it seriously," he mumbled. "No sense in causing trouble just for the sake of it."

Crowley came closer, taking Aziraphale's hands and urging him to his feet. "What? You didn't think I'd have hurt him just for that, would you?" he said, a little stung. Aziraphale shied away from his disappointed gaze.

"I just... after Cassius, I didn't know what you'd have done."

"Cassius tried to kill you, angel. That's different," he pointed out dryly. He took his face in both hands. "Look, I promise I'm not going to do anything to Philo. He'll be released on the same terms as everyone else."

"Promise?" he said, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.

"Well... I might give him a black eye if I catch him trying to kiss you," he said, almost to himself.

"Not if I beat you to it," he huffed, rolling his eyes. 

"He's got two eyes. We can share," he said, grinning mischievously. 

Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly. "Hush, you old troublemaker," he said, pulling him forward. 

Crowley hummed contentedly as he pressed their mouths together, soon parting his lips to let Aziraphale go further. They stood there, entwined, in perfect harmony until there was a knock at the door. With a grunt of irritation, Crowley pulled back just enough to call out: "Not now," before hungrily locking his lips back in place against Aziraphale's. 

The door clicked open anyway, squeaking inward. Aziraphale panicked at the noise, jolting back with wide eyes. Crowley turned a ferocious glare on the intruder. "What part of _not now_ don't you understand?" he shouted.

Augusta shrank back slightly, but didn't flee. Aziraphale watched, in awe of her bravery. She stood straight and cleared her throat. "Apologies, Master Antonius, but - "

"Unless you're about to end that sentence with _nevermind, I'll come back later_ , I suggest you stop talking," he warned, jabbing a finger in her direction. His free hand still rested on the crook of Aziraphale's neck. Augusta seemed very aware of that. 

Crowley was distracted by a subtle tug at his toga. He shot a small glance at Aziraphale, who fixed him with a reproachful stare. _Don't be rude_ , he said with his eyes.

Crowley twitched. _Fine_ , he responded silently. He dropped his arm back by his side. "What's so important, Augusta?" he said, calmer this time, with only an undercurrent of annoyance. 

"A horse has escaped," Augusta blurted out.

"You what?" Crowley said, almost vaulting over his desk in his desperation to get out of the room. "Why didn't you bloody tell me?"

He vanished, the echo of his hurried footfalls rapidly fading as he ran toward the stables. With him gone, Augusta came forward, grasping Aziraphale's arm and cupping his cheek gently. "You poor man, I'm so sorry," she whispered, distressed. Her aged face was creased with grief as she pulled him into a brief hug. "I came as soon as Philo told me what happened. Did he hurt you?"

"I'm quite all right, Augusta, really," he assured her, patting her arm gently as he pulled back.

"You seem so calm about this. I hope you're not offended, but you've got a far stronger mind than I thought," she said, stepping back from him as if sensing he didn't need the support. "It's a lot to put up with. I don't know how we're going to protect you by the time the evening rolls around..."

He tried to wave her off, a nervous smile overcoming his face. "I doubt he'll take me two nights in a row," he said, _because I won't let him_ , he added silently for his own benefit. Making a nightly habit of sex would only make everything worse, no matter how much he enjoyed it. He promised himself they’d have all the time in the world to spend in bed, once they were in Britain. 

"Are you sure? Even after what he just did?" she said incredulously. He nodded stridently. "Well, if you're so confident..."

"What about this escaped horse?" Aziraphale asked, eager to change the topic. He'd had quite enough of all these underhand games and lies for one day. "What on earth happened?"

She smiled. "It was Cato's idea. He let it out to give me an excuse to interrupt whatever Master Crowley was doing," she said proudly.

There was a long pause. "Oh," Aziraphale said, feeling slightly sick. "How clever."


	10. New Beginnings

The horse was safely recovered, after a few hours spent herding it back through the fields. Crowley directed their efforts from the back of the horse who hadn't escaped, and soon, everything was back as it should be. Crowley dismounted, handing the reins to Philo without a second glance at him. Aziraphale was grateful that he'd kept their conversation from earlier in mind. 

By dinner time, there was a somber mood in the kitchen. Aziraphale sat by the door, with Octavia leaning on his shoulder. Augusta stood over the cooking pot, almost ready to start plating things up. Aziraphale held Octavia's hand, half-dozing against the doorframe of the kitchen.

"Are you going to come back tonight, Aziraphale?" Octavia said quietly. He looked down at her, saddened by the childlike frailty in her voice. 

"Of course I will," he said, smiling calmly. Augusta listened in silence as she worked to prepare the meal. "Don't you worry about me."

"I'll stay up until you do," she said, cuddling closer to him. "Just to make sure."

His heart twisted. "Oh, my dear girl..." he said, resting his head on top of hers. He shared a forlorn glance with Augusta. "Do make sure you get some rest. I may not come back until late."

"I'll look after her, don't worry," Augusta said, loading a tray. Octavia muttered something mutinously under her breath as Aziraphale stood up to take the tray. "Good luck, Aziraphale."

"Thank you," he replied. He took the food into the triclinium, where Crowley watched him intently as he laid out the food. As soon as he saw Octavia and Augusta disappearing downstairs with their own food, he broke out into a relieved grin and jumped into Crowley's lap. 

"Oof! Steady on, angel," he laughed, welcoming him into his arms. "Anyone would think you hadn't seen me for a week."

"With all the talk going on downstairs, it certainly feels that way," he huffed. "Do you know, Octavia said she'd stay awake tonight to make sure I came back. They're worried sick, all of them."

Crowley grimaced, resting his chin on his shoulder. "No more fun tonight then?"

"I'm afraid not," he said, reaching over to the table to start picking at the food. "Every now and then, perhaps, but not every night. Well... not until we're in our new home, of course."

"Ooh, is that a promise?" Crowley said with a wolfish grin. 

"So long as you behave yourself until then," he said, snatching a plate of seafood to waft under his nose. "Can I tempt you to an oyster?"

"An angel, tempting a mortal?" he said, arching a brow. Aziraphale seemed a little flustered, but smiled. "Why does that not surprise me?"

Aziraphale went back downstairs that night. Everyone was relieved to wake up that morning and see him in his rightful place near the stairs, without any extra hickeys or scratches on him. He made a habit of returning downstairs regularly for at least a week, before temptation got the better of him again. He was lucky that Crowley let him set the pace; even if he didn't know it, it wouldn't take that much convincing to get Aziraphale to move into his room on a permanent basis, consequences be damned. To his credit, Crowley seemed to respect his wish not to worry his friends too much. 

Preparations for the trip were coming along nicely. Within four weeks, Crowley's British colleague had written back assuring him that the house would be ready to inhabit when he arrived. In that time, Crowley had also managed to tie up most of the loose ends he'd leave behind in Rome. No one took any notice. He was wealthy, yes, but not all that important, hence why he'd gotten away with hiding in a country villa most of the time. Even after he moved, he'd still have all his business assets and his connections to trade across the empire, so they'd not even have to worry about money. 

"Aziraphale!" Crowley called, emerging from the villa and half-jogging over to him, under the shade of a tree beside the field. Octavia tensed up, gripping his arm as Crowley came closer. 

"Don't go," she hissed in his ear, her nails digging into the flesh of his arm. She'd only become more clingy as time went on, especially if he'd spent the previous night in Crowley's room. She seemed perpetually terrified that he'd fall apart if she wasn't there to fret over him. 

"Need to talk to you," Crowley said, slowing down once he reached them. "Give us a minute, Octavia."

She glanced between the two men, looking at Aziraphale for permission rather than Crowley. He gave her a small nod, urging her out from under the tree. "You heard him, dear, off you pop," he said kindly. 

She reluctantly began to leave, with only a few glances over her shoulder as she headed back to the shade of the villa. Crowley turned to Aziraphale, taken for a moment with the way the sunlight was dappled through the leaves, falling into his skin like flakes of gold. "Guess what," he said, biting his lip and grinning like a child on his first festival day.

"What?" he replied, clasping his hands behind his back with an indulgent smile .

He leaned forward. "I've arranged our passage to Britain on a merchant ship," he said in a low voice, buzzing with anticipation. "We leave at the end of next month."

He gasped. "You mean - it's happening?" he said, suddenly standing on the balls of his feet. Crowley nodded, his face still plastered with a broad grin. "Oh, Crowley, I - "

He went to throw his arms around him, but stopped himself. He shot a nervous glance toward the villa, squinting to try and make out who was there, and if they were watching. Crowley huffed impatiently. "Bugger this. C'mere, angel," he said, pushing him back against the tree trunk and pressing his lips against his. Aziraphale kissed back with fervour. 

He broke away, feeling Aziraphale give a pleasurable shudder against him. "Crowley - they'll see!" he gasped, his eyes going wide with the sudden realisation. He thanked the gods they were at least out of earshot. 

"So what? They already know," he said, kissing his neck. "It doesn't matter as long they think I'm the one to blame."

His heart fluttered. For an instant, he closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation of Crowley's lips on his throat, with the silky material of his toga clenched in his palms. "Crowley," he said firmly, forcing himself to snap out of it.

Hearing his tone, Crowley backed off immediately. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right. Sorry, angel," he said sheepishly. "Shouldn't have done that, I know."

Aziraphale sighed, planting his hands on his hips. "You know I want this as much as you do, my dear, but you must be patient," he told him. "I'm not saying no. I'm just saying not now."

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Yep. You're right, I'm sorry," he said. "My fault."

"I forgive you," he said with a loving smile. "Wonderful news about the merchant ship, though, my dear. You must tell me about it at dinner, and then maybe we can pick up where we left off just now..."

Crowley smiled in relief, finally allowing himself to believe the hadn't offended Aziraphale too badly. "Only if you want to, angel."

"Oh, I do," he said, shooting him a wink before Crowley left the shade of the tree. 

Crowley passed by Octavia and Philo as he entered the villa. He didn't need to wonder if they'd seen them under the tree. Their judgemental stared followed him as he went inside, and he heard Octavia break into a sprint away from the house as soon as he was out of sight. He winced. He regretted it, feeling like a fool for letting his excitement get the better of him...

Weeks began to pass. Crowley managed to begin the process of packing on his own, arranging his belongings very particularly so they could be boxed up even on short notice. Eventually, he decided it was time to start putting away the things he could live without until the other side of the boat trip. He found many of them too heavy to lift on his own, forcing him to call upon his servants to help. He could see the confusion in their faces when they saw the boxes.

"What's this about...?" Philo whispered to Cato, not realising that Crowley could still hear him from the hallway. 

"No idea. Maybe he's going on a trip," he replied in an undertone. "I noticed he's been looking at a lot of maps recently."

"Hope so. It might finally give Aziraphale a rest, or even a chance to run away while he's gone," he said cynically. Crowley ground his teeth slightly, striding back into the room just to shut them up. He didn't give any indication he'd heard their gossiping. 

Crowley told Aziraphale what they'd said that night, and after a drawn-out conversation, they'd decided on what they should do. The following evening, just as the cooking pot began to cool, Aziraphale would go down into the basement after laying the food on the table. He ran his fingers along the stone stairwell as he went, with the warm yet heavy knowledge in his heart that things were about to change. He dearly hoped it would be for the better. He and Crowley certainly thought it would, now their plan was so close to fruition. After all these years, Crowley desperately wanted to do right by his servants, at least once. If nothing else, at least once.

"Knock knock," Aziraphale said cheerily as he poked his head into the basement. 

Everyone's eyes turned to him in surprise. "Aziraphale?" Augusta said, stunned, with her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Has - has he let you go for the night already?"

"Someone get the man some food," Philo laughed, fixing him with a joyful stare. 

Aziraphale returned a half-hearted echo of it. "I'm afraid I must refuse. Master Crowley only sent me down because he wants to see us all in the triclinium," he said, pointing back up the stairs. "He's got something to say."

Excitement and relief quickly turned sour with worry. Augusta was the first to recover, setting her bowl aside and straightening her tunic meticulously. She turned and did the same for Octavia, who could hardly stand still, and wouldn't stop looking at Aziraphale with a stare that silently pleaded for reassurance. Philo and Cato stood solemnly, giving one another a terse nod. One by one, they stood in line in the room, as if ready to go into battle.

"You all look so worried," he observed with a skittish laugh. 

"Lead the way, Aziraphale," Augusta replied, taking Octavia's hand comfortingly in her own. 

With a gulp, he nodded and turned to go back upstairs. He sincerely hoped Crowley's announcement would lift their spirits. A thousand things rushed through his head. What were they expecting? Some sort of show trial? An execution? Banishment? Whatever it was, they obviously weren't anticipating a pleasant chat. 

Twilight bled into the triclinium, turning the shadows beyond the halo of lamplight an odd purple colour. Crowley sat up straight on the sofa, sipping from a cup of wine with only the back of his head visible to the group trailing into the room. His eyes followed them each in turn as they passed him by, going to stand just behind the sofa opposite him. He'd come to think of it as Aziraphale's sofa. Aziraphale himself slunk to the back of the group, half-submerged in the shadows, so as not to give away his prior knowledge of the announcement. The one nearest to him - Cato - was too busy lifting his chin proudly to notice, ready to take on whatever punishment he expected to be handed out. Everyone knew that if a master wanted to see all their slaves at once, nothing good could come of it. 

Crowley cast his eye over them for one long moment, and shocked them all with a soft, almost fond, smile. "It's good to see you all in one place for once," he said. There wasn't even the barest hint of anger in his tone. "You lot... you've been good to me. Better than I deserve, I know."

They began to share small side-glances with one another. Their questions were obvious, but unspoken _(Where's this come from? Is he drunk?),_ and Aziraphale pressed his lips tightly shut to stifle a laugh. "I'm not usually one for giving speeches, so I hope you all know that I... I think of you as my family. Never did have much need for a daughter of my own when I had Octavia running around causing trouble, did I?" he joked, and Octavia couldn't stop herself from returning the unguarded smile he gave her. For a split second, all was forgotten. Then, he dropped the smile, becoming somber and quiet again. "But I think you've all made it very clear that you've had your fill of my company by now."

They collectively tensed up again. This was it. He'd heard their whispering, noticed their underhand tactics to keep him off Aziraphale, and now it was coming back to bite them. He'd had enough of them getting in his way. 

"I know why. I'm not stupid," he said. Aziraphale did his best to ignore the concerned side-glances being thrown in his direction. "But it's not going to matter soon. I called you here to tell you that I'm leaving Italy, permanently. I'm moving to a smaller house in Britain and I won't be needing your services once I leave."

"You're selling us?" Philo finally spoke up, his indignation breaking through the knot in his throat. 

Crowley fixed him with a steady stare. He could feel the expectation in the room as they braced themselves for an outburst at the blatant interruption. "No," he replied slowly. He gave a slow blink, sitting back against the sofa. "To show my, er... my gratitude, for your many years of service, I've decided to let you go. When I leave this villa, you’ll have your freedom."

Silence covered the room like a thick blanket. Only the flicker of the oil lamps broke the illusion that the scene in the triclinium was anything more than an exquisite fresco. "We... we won't be slaves anymore," Octavia breathed, voice wavering. 

"Nope," he replied, popping the P. He frowned at his empty wine cup. "I'll give you each a sum of money, too, as a parting gift. It'll be enough to give you a fair start in life until you can take care of yourselves. Not much point in setting you free if you end up selling yourself back into slavery after the first week."

It began to sink in, then. Augusta grasped for support on Philo's shoulder, her knees almost giving out. He held her up, a grin beginning to spread onto his face, contagious and glowing. They all had it. Cato dragged Aziraphale into a hug with a woop of delight, patting him hard on the back as he chuckled along. It was swiftly followed by a crushing hug from Octavia, giddy and bursting with energy. 

"All right, all right, tone it down you lot," Crowley said, but there was no bite in his words. No one tensed up when he spoke, and if he didn't know any better, he might even say that Augusta rolled her eyes at him. He let it slide. "You've got a few more weeks to go before I leave. Don't get too excited. Now go on, back downstairs - apart from you, Aziraphale. You can join them once I'm done eating."

That was even better. With the promise of freedom and the guarantee that they'd have Aziraphale back tonight, they all but danced out of the room. He'd never seen them all so animated. Once their boisterousness had faded beneath the ground, Aziraphale sat down on his sofa, picking up the nearest dish of food.

"Well, I think that went rather well," he said, giving a self-satisfied wriggle.

"Yeah, now you just need to break it to them that you're coming with me," he said, arching a brow. Aziraphale winced. He'd asked Crowley to leave out that part, hoping not to sour their happiness... at least not just yet. 

"Maybe they won't ask?" he said, sounding unconvinced with himself. 

"Look, I'll let you take that one. I'm at a loss, too," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. He held up the silver jug on the table. "While you're thinking... wine?"

"Please," he said gratefully, holding out his cup.

The basement room had never been so lively. There were cries of excitement and tears of joy, and Octavia couldn't bear to sit down. She held her bowl and ate as she bounced up and down the room, listening to the conversation being tossed around.

"I haven't been free since I was a boy," Philo said with a grin. 

"I don't even remember ever being free," Octavia said.

"And with money as well?" Cato said, nudging Philo's shoulder. "That'll be new."

"Better start making plans now," Augusta said, pausing to take a bite of her food. "Rome is the nearest city, and it would be easy to get lost or hurt in such a large place."

"We could stick together, at least for a while," Philo suggested, looking around to gauge their reactions. "If we pool our money, we could afford a nicer place, and support one another until we know what we want to do."

Octavia nodded enthusiastically. "I'd like that. I'd hate to be all on my own," she said, a flicker of worry in her face at the thought. She was suddenly buoyed up by another burst of excitement. "And Aziraphale will be with us, too! Gods, he must be so relieved."

Augusta smiled. "Yes. Master Crowley must have finally come to his senses," she said sagely. "I always suspected that he knew what he'd done was wrong."

"Still doesn't make it any better," Philo said, curling his lip slightly. Still, as he took a few more bites of his dinner, he wondered if Aziraphale might finally look twice at him once they were free. Without the shadow of Master Antonius looming over him, everything could change. 

Everyone was asleep by the time Aziraphale came downstairs, much to his relief. He still had wine on his breath and the warmth of love painted in the blush on his cheeks, and it would have been hard to hide. 

Getting up the next morning, it was impossible to ignore the joy which had overtaken them all. They went about their days with new enthusiasm, with light finally at the end of the tunnel, and Aziraphale shared their happiness. He, too, had something to look forward to. Crowley had started to bring maps to the dinner table, showing him the route the boat would soon be taking, and explaining everything that would happen on the way. They'd have a lengthy trip on a horse-drawn cart before they reached the docks, where they'd board the boat for a voyage that could last for up to two weeks, depending on the winds. 

Most days were now spent packing up the belongings in the villa. A lot of the bulky furniture was staying, and with the minimal approach Crowley had taken to the house in general, there really wasn't much to do. It had been a few days since the announcement, and Aziraphale had been keeping his secret hidden beneath vague comments and happy smiles. He'd gotten away with it, until now.

"Oh, Aziraphale?" Octavia said, bringing in an armful of plates for the boxes. Philo was behind her, carrying a larger crate. "We've been meaning to ask, but we haven't had the chance. Did you have any special plans for after Master Crowley leaves?"

He paused, his back to her as he stopped over one of the crates. He swallowed his nerves. "Erm - no, not as such," he replied haltingly, pretending to scrabble around at something in the bottom of the box. 

She gave a small squeal of delight. "That's great!"

"It is?" he said, looking over his shoulder in befuddlement. 

"We've been talking, and we all decided to stick together for a while when we move out of the villa," Philo said, putting down the crate with a grunt. "We thought you might join us. If you want to, of course. No pressure."

He gave a pained smile. Octavia's excited optimism stung him slightly. "That does sound lovely," he admitted, looking down at his feet. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline." 

Their faces fell. "What?" Octavia said, her shoulders slumping down. "Why?"

"W - well, you see, er - I won't really be around for much longer," he said sheepishly, fiddling with his hands and stumbling over his excuses. 

"What? Why? Are you sick?" Philo said, eyes wide with worry. He stepped closer, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead and frowning at him, looking for any sign of illness. 

Aziraphale slapped his hand away. "Oh for Heaven's sake, dear boy, I'm not dying. I'm just... moving away," he said evasively, turning away again to take the plates from Octavia's arms and add them to the box. 

“What? Since when?” Philo said, jaw slack. Aziraphale shrugged helplessly, trying to avoid his gaze as guilt piled itself onto his shoulders. 

"Aziraphale," Octavia said slowly. Suspicion dripped from her voice, laced with anxiety. He went still, his back facing them both again. "Where are you moving to...?"

He pressed his lips together tightly, fiddling with the edge of the box. "Britain," he murmured. 

Philo took a sharp breath. "What? What did you just say?"

"Master Crowley is taking me to Britain with him," he said, no louder than before, though his words couldn't be mistaken. Slowly, as if expecting a blow, he turned to face them. 

Octavia's tear-filled eyes were worse than a punch. "No," she whispered, edging closer to him, eventually reaching out to cling to his chest. "He can't. He can't just take you away. He can't."

He let her fall against his chest, rubbing her back as she cried into his toga. "There there, dear girl. It's okay. I'll be just fine," he said soothingly. He could feel Philo's hard stare on him, uncomprehending. "You needn't fret about silly old me."

"I hate how calm you are about this. Why don't you ever get angry at him?" she sobbed, tightening her grip on him with every word she spoke. "It's not _fair._ "

"When were you going to tell us that he was keeping you?" Philo said finally, his arms tightly crossed and his brow creased. He was somewhere between angry and devastated. "How long have you known?"

He stroked Octavia's hair gently. "From the very beginning. He was never going to leave me behind," he said softly. "I've made my peace with it, as should you. I'm quite happy to go."

Octavia cried harder, and he regretted his words immediately. In fact, he regretted admitting to anything at all. He could have lied. He could have told them he was going to Naples, or Florence, or even planning to travel the empire and see the world. Now the words were out, and he couldn't just hide them away like the love-bites on his shoulders or the silly grin on his face when he talked about Crowley. This was real, and painful, and he was desperate to fix it.

He pulled away, rubbing her shoulders gently. "Dry those tears, darling," he said, wiping the dampness from her cheeks. She sniffled. "He’ll take good care of me. Don't be upset. You'll be free soon, and you'll forget all about it."

"No one's going to forget you, Aziraphale," Philo said, pacing back and forth across the room with his hands tugging at his hair. 

He sighed, eyes downcast. "I know, dear boy. I know."

No one saw much of Aziraphale after that. The news spread to Augusta and Cato quickly, but neither of them ever got a chance to speak to him without Master Crowley in the room. In reality, he was too ashamed to show his face anymore. Some part of him hoped that if he stuck close to Crowley's side, they wouldn't be so attached by the time he had to leave, and they'd let him go without a fuss. It didn't seem to be working. The air had gone from elated to sullen, and Crowley was getting more glares than ever. He knew exactly why, and he'd tried to convince Aziraphale not to cut himself off from them, to no avail. He was adamant it was better this way. He didn't even go down to the basement to sleep anymore. 

Philo couldn't rest. He tossed and turned most nights, sitting up to try and clear his head and failing miserably. He could feel the absence in the room, even in the sooty darkness. Octavia had been nigh on inconsolable since she'd found out that Aziraphale wasn't going free. Augusta had more than a few quiet talks with her to help her through it, but her own disappointment in Crowley made things difficult. He dragged a hand through his beard, wondering how things had gone so wrong. The humidity in the air lay heavy on him, and he couldn’t bear to stay. He navigated across the room in the pitch black, heading up the stairs until he emerged into the cool, clean night. 

He took a deep breath, feeling the breeze through his tunic. He walked along the wall of the villa with a weight on his shoulders, running his fingers across the white plaster. He just wished that Aziraphale would fight back.

A murmur reached his ears. He froze, realising that he was stood a mere six feet from the triclinium window. He swallowed hard. Lamplight glowed softly from inside, followed by a pair of familiar voices. Were they... talking? Did Crowley really talk to Aziraphale when they were alone? Intrigued, he flattened himself to the wall, edging forward right to the edge of the windowsill, straining his hearing.

"... and we'll need furs for the winter," Crowley said. "British winters are nothing like Italian ones."

"Yes, I'd guessed that," Aziraphale replied condescendingly. Philo's brow furrowed; he'd never heard anyone talk to Master Antonius that way. There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like him taking a bite out of something, too, but... that would mean that he and Master Antonius were sharing a meal together, and that would be unthinkable.

"Should've known. Too clever for your own good, you are," he said, not seeming to mind in the slightest. "You'd have your nose in a book for days on end if you didn't need to eat or sleep."

"Says the man who taught me to read in the first place," he said smugly. Philo's jaw dropped. 

"You’ve got me there, angel," he laughed. There was a pause, presumably as he took a mouthful of food. The pet name had thrown Philo for a loop, too. They were speaking and joking not as Master and slave, but like equals, or even like... like lovers. 

"Tell me more about this quaint little house you've got prepared for us," Aziraphale said. That shocked Philo on two counts: first, that Aziraphale dared to give an order to his master. Secondly, that he'd said _for us._ Not just for Crowley; for the both of them.

"Well, it's an old build, but it's still solid. It's stone, not one of those mud huts the locals live in," Crowley said. "There's a bath, some land, and I'm going to get my hands on a _very_ nice feather bed for us to share."

Philo flinched at the flirtatious tone in his voice. It wasn't threatening, though. In fact, it seemed almost playful. "You snake," Aziraphale chuckled. "You know feathers are a weakness of mine."

"Hmm, that's the point. With any luck, I might manage to keep you in that bed for at least the first few days," he purred. Though Philo couldn't see it, he'd hooded his eyes and leaned toward Aziraphale, biting his lip to tempt him in. "Would you like that, angel?"

"Oh, very much so," he said sincerely, his tone coloured by obvious lust. 

Fabric rustled, and sandals tapped against the triclinium floor. Philo held his breath, losing his mental image of the scene inside. There was another whisper of a noise, a mumble, a pleased grunt... His stomach flipped. Gripped with self-torturing curiosity, he took a step forward, curling his fingers around the edge of the wall and peeking into the triclinium. 

Aziraphale was straddling Crowley's lap on the sofa, kissing him with soft, unhurried tenderness. One hand rested on his neck, while the other brushed through his red hair in a comforting motion. Crowley squirmed slightly against him, eventually pulling back with a light gasp. With his eyes still half-shut, he dropped his mouth to the crook of Aziraphale's neck, pulling him closer as he began to nip and suck his skin. 

“Mmm... Crowley...” Aziraphale murmured breathlessly. “Don’t stop, darling.”

Philo couldn't move. Everything he'd thought of Aziraphale was being turned on its head. He was urging Crowley on, flirting, sharing food, never shying away... His heart raced, battering his ribcage, trying to shock him into fleeing back to the basement. He left it an instant too late. As Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale's neck, about to murmur something in his ear, his hooded eyes passed over the window. His gaze halted suddenly. Philo's stomach dropped as he met his master's gaze; a thousand years passed by in that static instant, until Crowley's face twisted with rage.

"Hey!" he barked, shocking Aziraphale out of his lap. 

Philo scrambled away from the wall, breaking into a sprint back toward the basement. He didn't think about where he was going. A childish part of his brain told him that if he could just get back to his bed, he'd be safe. Crowley had vaulted through the window after him. His footfalls were gaining on him, closer and closer, and he felt his hand scrape his tunic as he swung himself down the steps. 

“Oh no you don’t!” Crowley barked, hot on his tail. 

Aziraphale hardly knew what happened. One moment he'd crawled into his lover's lap hoping for a little affection, and the next thing he knew, Crowley had jumped out the window. He'd only had an instant to see what he'd been chasing, but Philo's voice had reached his ears a moment later. With a cry of worry, he snatched an oil lamp from the table and hauled himself through the window after them. 

He hurried down the basement steps, able to hear the commotion at the bottom before the lamp in his hand illuminated the scene. The light eventually fell upon Crowley's stiff shoulders, holding Philo by the front of his tunic against a wall. 

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?" Crowley snarled. Everyone else was awake, shrinking back in their beds in fear and confusion. Their Master’s furious shouts had dragged them from their sleep. "How much did you see?"

Philo's breathing laboured as he leaned back desperately, as if hoping the wall would swallow him from behind. "What on earth is going on down here?" Aziraphale said sharply, holding up the lamp before anyone else could speak.

"Back upstairs, Aziraphale. I'll handle this," he said, refusing to take his burning glare away from Philo. 

He pouted. "No," he said.

"Wh - what?" Crowley said, twisting to look at him. Augusta gave a faint gasp, and all eyes bored into Aziraphale like he'd gone mad. Crowley faked irritation, jerking his head toward the stairs. "I said _leave_. That's an order."

"Yes, I heard you the first time," he insisted stubbornly, raising his chin in defiance. "I'm not going anywhere until you put him down."

Time seemed to stop. Everyone went perfectly still, Philo especially, terrified that the slightest movement would shock Crowley out of his stupor and into a fit of rage. Cato subtly watched Octavia from the corner of his eye, ready to intercept her if she decided to do anything stupid to protect their friend. Aziraphale hardened his stare when Crowley didn't respond. With a defeated huff, Crowley let Philo drop back into his feet and took a step back.

"There. Happy?" he said, shooting him a mocking smile.

"Yes, thank you," he said, shooting back the very same expression. He glanced around the room, scanning over the stunned, uncomprehending faces stationed in the flickering half-light. "Terribly sorry for the ruckus. I don't suppose I could persuade you all to forget this ever happened...?"

Crowley snorted. "Not after ordering me around like that, angel."

"Hush," he said, and he fell silent again with only a small sneer of reluctance. Cato and Octavia shared a glance, both their jaws slack. Aziraphale was stood there pulling their Master’s puppet-strings like Crowley was the slave, not him! Not to mention that pet name...

Augusta shakily got to her feet. "Aziraphale," she said, with a cautious glance at Crowley. He didn't seem to mind her not addressing him; he was still glaring daggers at Philo. "What is going on?"

Aziraphale looked at Philo's stricken, pale face. Crowley loomed over him, itching to teach him a lesson or two about what happened to men who spied on him... only he wouldn't so much as raise his hand without the go-ahead from Aziraphale, which he wasn't ever going to get. With violence out of the question, there was nothing left but the truth. He and Crowley shared a glance for a moment. Aziraphale gave him his best puppydog eyes, parting his lips a little in a pleading gesture as he posed the question silently. Crowley scowled, knowing he was already defeated. He gave a terse nod.

"Why don't you all come upstairs?" Aziraphale suggested gently. "It's a rather long story, you see."

Crowley crossed his arms, slouching back on the triclinium sofa in silence as everyone shuffled in. He didn't say a word, no matter how many times they looked expectantly at him for orders, letting Aziraphale direct them all to sit on the opposite sofa and make themselves comfortable. Dread washed over him in waves. The secret was coming out, after all this time... He had to silence them somehow, make sure they wouldn't put Aziraphale at risk, at least before they got on the ship. He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale sitting beside him, grasping his hand tightly. Crowley's eyes flicked over to him, met with a soft, encouraging smile.

"Do help yourselves to some food," Aziraphale told the row of servants across from them. "It's very good, and we've each had our fill already."

They all shared baffled glances. "So you _were_ eating with him," Philo said victoriously, leaning forward. 

"Amongst other things," Crowley muttered, mostly for his own amusement. He caught the mortified stares coming his way immediately. "Consensually," he added insistently. 

"Was it?" Cato challenged, squaring up by Philo's side. Tension was building, and someone was bound to snap if no one intervened.

"Yes," Aziraphale cut in firmly. He clasped his hand over Crowley's, clinging to him for dear life as he took a deep breath, and began to explain. 

He told the story hesitantly at first, full of stuttering and backtracking and often eager to downplay events. As he got into his stride, he became more love-struck, especially when he described all the time they had spent together since he'd first arrived in the villa. Somewhere along the line, the tale had turned from a sordid confession into a heartfelt love story. Octavia was especially taken up with it, with a broad grin on her face from Aziraphale's contagious joy. Augusta took more notice of the adoring gaze that Crowley was giving Aziraphale, unwavering and achingly sincere. She'd never seen anything like it, not from him. 

"So... all the times you didn't come back, all the times you vanished for hours at a time during the day," Cato said slowly, once the story was done. "... it wasn't forced? He never hurt you?"

"Not even once," Aziraphale replied. Crowley reached across, laying his hand on his knee in a comforting gesture, still saying nothing. "He loves me dearly. Don't you, Crowley?"

"Mm. Yep," he said, his cheeks warming a little as he ducked his head in embarrassment. 

"Then why drag him halfway across the world to live on one of the coldest, most remote islands in the empire?" Philo spoke up, the most sceptical of them all. He crossed his arms firmly. He'd grown bolder since it became clear that Aziraphale held just as much power as Master Antonius did. "Why lie?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but stopped as Crowley raised his hand to silence him. "Britain is where he came from," he said, his voice feeling oddly quiet amongst the faint rustling sounds of the Mediterranean night. "I'm taking him home."

Philo shut his mouth abruptly. He muttered something sheepish and conciliatory, looking down at his feet. Augusta placed a hand on his back, and shared a long look of understanding with the man who she had long considered to be her master. "That is very noble of you, child," she said softly.

Crowley blinked, a ripple running down his throat. He shuffled in his seat. "Thanks," he croaked. He'd not heard a motherly voice in many years, not one directed at him. He twitched, refusing to let himself tear up. He blamed it on the late night. 

"All this time, you just wanted to be happy," Octavia said, rubbing the back of her neck. She gave a breathy laugh. "Now I just feel a bit silly, getting so upset over everything..."

"Oh don't be, it's quite all right," Aziraphale said reassuringly with a warm smile. "I must admit, it did look rather suspect. It had to, you see. We were so very worried that our little secret might go beyond these walls, and then, well... I'd be killed, put shortly."

"We'll keep quiet," Philo piped up, surprising everyone. He clasped his hands together nervously, taking a deep breath as he prepared to eat his words. "We don't want you getting hurt. That's the whole reason we were worried in the first place. If - If you're happy, so are we. Right?"

Octavia nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, well said," Cato replied, backed up by an encouraging smile from Augusta.

"Oh - oh thank you, thank you, all of you!" Aziraphale cried, overcome with gratitude. He pressed his hands over his heart, looking at Crowley.

"What he said," he added on. Aziraphale gave him a poke in the ribs, and a stern glance. He huffed, and continued: "This means a lot to both of us. It's - it's good that you, ah... can be trusted. We - um... we'll miss you."

"We'll miss you too, sir," Octavia said kindly.

"Please, drop the titles. I think we're past that now," Crowley said. He caught the proud look he was getting from Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. "It's just Crowley from now on."

Finally, the evening was calm. Conversation flowed more easily, with the gentle murmur of friendly voices continuing until they became slow with fatigue. Yellow lamplight cut a square from the darkness, visible for miles around as plates clinked and food was shared out. A few times, they made a trip downstairs to fetch some extra to go around. Crowley was happy to finally give them what they’d always deserved, even if he’d left it so late. The cool night air carried their voices out into the steadily deepening night, toward the trees silhouetted on the edge of the rolling fields. A small bird perched on a low-hanging branch. It watched the distant house, fascinated by the sound of human laughter. Perhaps the little bird knew that something had changed because, while they were eating, a nightingale sang for the Antonius Villa. Nobody heard it over the noise of their conversation, but it was there, right enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we leave the story in Italy! The next couple of chapters were actually only supposed to be the epilogue, but a few ideas sort of ran away with me and I ended up writing bonus chapters... so I hope you enjoy those too <3


	11. Coming Home

After many what felt like eons at sea, land finally faded into view on the misty horizon. Aziraphale was at the bow immediately, calling Crowley over as the foam tossed up from the waves battered his cheeks. The winds were in their favour, and the voyage had been smooth. Aziraphale insisted that it was a sign from the gods; Crowley said it was just a good time of year to be sailing. 

Britain grew rapidly from a smudge at the foot of the sky to a looming sprawl of docks and other boats coming into harbour. Crowley watched his lover fondly, basking in the warmth of his smile even despite the biting coastal winds. The ship's crew had noticed their close relationship by the second half of the trip, and they'd been subject to some light teasing from the men aboard. Aziraphale seemed to enjoy the banter. His good mood seemed utterly incorruptible, and he spoke at length about his mother in the evenings, when the sky was clear and the stars smiled down at them. He'd begun to wear a silver Celtic knot on a leather string around his neck, its craftsmanship crude but distinctive and charming. It was all he had left of her. After he'd explained that, Crowley made a mental note to get hold of a sturdy chain to replace the string he was wearing. He'd be heartbroken if he lost it. 

The silvery jewellery glinted in the sunshine as Aziraphale rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, waiting for the chance to step down off the boat. The planks clunked as they came into harbour, and the captain nodded to them that they could go. Their luggage would be unloaded with the rest of the cargo.

The dock creaked underfoot as Aziraphale left the boat. A shiver ran through him, his eyes fixed ahead on the solid ground not far away. The sky was greyish-white, hanging over a rugged coastline of black rocks amongst the coarse sand and roughly-made homes. He felt Crowley take his arm, guiding him forward gently.

"Not exactly Olympus, I know, but I promise you our house is nicer," he murmured in his ear.

"What are you talking about?" he said, his eyes sparkling as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. "This is just lovely."

He gave him a quizzical glance, raising his eyebrows but saying nothing. Aziraphale seemed perfectly content to stand on the dry land close-by while Crowley coordinated their luggage into the horse-drawn cart that had been waiting for them. The cold was making him shudder, even underneath his many layers, but he didn't care. He was _home._ This was the land his mother had told him about, the dramatic backdrop to the stories of his childhood, and the place where he ought to have grown up. A flicker of sadness sparked up in his chest. He quickly snuffed it out with a quick glance at Crowley, who was sneaking an apple for one of the horses hitched to the front of their cart while he thought no one was looking. Aziraphale beamed. This may be where he was from, but if he'd been born here, he'd never have fallen in love with Crowley. That more than made up for it, in his mind. 

Progress was slow, even after they disembarked from the boat. The little coastal settlement they'd landed in was the only town for miles around so, after picking up some supplies for the road, they took the road away from the coast before night had a chance to fall. With just the two of them in the cart, they alternated between soft murmurs of conversation and companionable silence. They travelled for two days before Crowley announced they were nearing their destination. 

"Here, I'll show you," he said, reaching back to fish out the map he'd been navigating with. He held it out, pointing carefully. "See this? That's Londinium, it's a major city. We're south of that, heading for a valley among the chalk hills, which is about here."

"I see. Good lord, how exciting," he said, leaning on his shoulder with a contented sigh. "I can hardly believe I'm really here, you know, after all this time."

"It was a long voyage," he agreed, putting the map away. 

"Not that, you idiot," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm nearly fifty years old now, and after all that time I never thought I'd get to see Britain, you know. Not really."

"I never thought I'd throw away my whole life and elope with one of my slaves either, but here we are," he replied, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "I wouldn't have it any other way, angel."

The clatter of iron-clad wheels against the cobble road followed them into town. The buildings clustered about them were, for the most part, roughly-built huts with smoke billowing up from the holes in the thatch rooftops. The chill was beginning to bite through the cloak slung around Aziraphale's shoulders, and Crowley spurred on the horses a little faster. They only had a short way to go now, just beyond the settlement to their new home, where they could get a fire going and a warm meal. The village seemed mostly deserted as they passed. Everyone seemed to be inside, sheltering from the cold. 

The cart had drawn more attention than they thought. One of the village children had managed to slip away from his mother's watchful gaze to peek out at the road from behind his house. He watched the passing cart, laden with crates and bags, with horses that puffed and panted in fatigue. They'd come a long way, and they weren't travelling light. Adam's eyes lit up. He and his friends had been running off to the Roman House on the other side of the hill for weeks, watching the labourers going back and forth from the white stone structure to clean and tidy the whole building from top to bottom. Finally, the new residents had arrived! He grinned; things had been so boring around here up until now. 

He scrambled back, skirting around the edge of his house to chase the cart without being seen. He crouched behind a shrub, brushing aside the leaves to get a better view of the two men sat amongst the luggage. One was thin, mean-looking, with a slightly hooked nose that marked him out as stereotypically Roman. He dressed in dark, flowing cloth, and to Adam, he looked like a mythical villain from the old fireside tales. His companion was different entirely. The other man was rounder, friendlier, and would have looked like a local if not for the Italian-style clothes he wore. Adam watched intently as they spoke softly to one another. They looked at one another in the same strange, soft way that his parents did. He briefly considered tailing them all the way back to the Roman House, but the sun was already bending down toward the horizon, and his mother would be furious if he stayed out after dark. Well, more furious than she already was.

The house was just as Crowley remembered it. It sat in a sheltered spot, tucked out of view of the nearby village, with downy grassland sprawling out from the foot of the building. As the sun set, the dew glowed gold upon the ground, making the landscape seem almost gilded as the light waned. Relieved to finally crawl down from the cart, he ushered Aziraphale into the house, promising he'd be there once he unhitched the horses. 

Aziraphale stepped inside. "Brr," he said, rubbing his arms. He glanced around the first room, which seemed to be an atrium on a tiny scale - or at least, tiny compared to the villa in Italy. This was homier, cosier, more quaint... he beamed, and made his way through into the next room. 

There was a hearth in here, with a few pieces of furniture and some dry wood already set up amongst the ashes of the last fire. Clearly, the workmen had used the hearth before they'd arrived, and Aziraphale couldn't blame them. Crowley hadn't been lying when he said Britain was cold. He knelt down, and had just gotten the fire going when Crowley reappeared behind him. 

"So, what do you think?" he asked, sitting down on the floor beside him. They'd move their furniture in tomorrow; for now, some furs on the ground and some body warmth would be more than enough for the night.

"It's quite lovely," he replied, snuggling close as the flames began to grow. "You've outdone yourself, my dear."

He nuzzled his neck with a pleased hum. "Love you."

"I love you too, Crowley," he said, leaning his head back so his breath stirred against his ear. "And you know, even despite what you say about yourself... I like to think that none of this would have worked out if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit... a good person."

Crowley's lips paused against the crook of his neck for a moment, before pulling back just enough to say: "Well, in that case... I don't think any of this would have happened either if you weren't, deep down... just enough of a bastard to be worth loving," he said, resting his chin on his shoulder with a dopey smile. Aziraphale beamed in return, tenderly taking his hand as they lay back together to watch the flames bloom into life on the hearth.

Adam and his friends crept over to the Roman House at first light. They whispered to one another as they gathered on the ridge, staring down at the quiet home below. Songbirds passed by overhead, bringing the first sounds to the vast expanses of open hills and grasslands. Nothing stirred. 

Pepper scoffed. "This is boring," she said after a while. "I thought Romans were s'posed to be more interesting than this."

"They are. You've seem 'em marching, haven't you?" Adam said, still staring down the ridge. "They've got all that armour and those big flags they carry around. They made all the roads, too. Mum said they did."

"Roads are boring too," Brian said unhelpfully, sat with his back to the house, staring up at the clouds. Adam rolled his eyes. "Wensleydale had it right. He's probably at home having breakfast right now..."

Wensleydale's mother hadn't allowed him to go out with his friends that morning. She insisted he stay and eat a proper meal before going anywhere; he'd almost starved during a harsh winter as a boy, and his parents had never forgotten. Adam had just stolen some fruit as he left his own home. He'd get in trouble for it later, but it was worth it. He wouldn't miss this for the world... even if nothing was happening yet. 

"Edan told me all Romans are like snakes," Pepper said idly, picking a few strands of grass from the ground. "He reckons they don't even have hearts, just a hole in their chest where they should be."

Brian shrugged. "Old Edan's grumpy with everyone, though. Dad says that's why he's a blacksmith, so he can stand around hitting things with a hammer all day instead of being angry."

Adam hummed, sounding like he was about to disagree. They looked expectantly at him. "My mum told me he used to like making jewellery, actually, when he was younger," he said thoughtfully. "That's how he started out."

Pepper raised a brow. "Then why did he stop?"

He shrugged. "She didn't say," he replied. Finally, a flicker of movement down below caught his attention. He gasped. "Look! They're here!"

They all flattened themselves down in the grass, squinting down at the figure which had emerged from the house. It was the thin man. He'd dressed himself in more local clothing already, with breeches, tall boots and a tunic pulled tight with a thick leather belt. Adam was surprised that he was so quick to forgo his Roman attire. Usually, the Italian immigrants liked to keep as much of their old culture with them as they could... this one didn't seem to have the same attachment. He was even more surprised when he went to the cart, which had been sat outside overnight, and began to unload it himself. 

"Are you sure he's moving in, Adam?" Brian asked quietly. "Maybe he's just a servant. Romans don't do any of their own work. Dad says."

"Maybe not," he replied tightly. He didn't like being wrong. "But the other one didn't look Roman at all, apart from his clothes."

Pepper rolled her eyes. "Well then, if they're only servants, why don't we just go and ask them what's going on?" she said, getting to her feet and dusting off her tunic. "Come on, you two."

Brian and Adam scrambled to their feet, hurrying after her as she strode confidently down the hill. She didn't like sneaking around. If there was a way she could face something head-on, that's what she'd do. The darkly dressed man didn't seem to notice the children approaching until he turned to fetch another box from the cart, and pulled himself up short. He blinked in surprise. They marched up to him with purpose, coming to a halt just a few feet away. 

"Hi..." Crowley said slowly. He wasn't entirely sure what the protocol was for this situation. 

"Hi," Adam replied, stepping up beside Pepper before she said anything too brusque. "I'm Adam, this is Pepper and Brian. We're from the village over the hill."

"I'd guessed," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. Gods, he loved pockets. Why didn't togas have these, and yet Celtic clothes did? _Honestly, and we call ourselves the civilised ones..._ he thought to himself. 

"You're supposed to tell us who you are now," Brian piped up helpfully. Crowley snapped back to reality, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Right. Um, the name's Crowley. It's Crowley Antonius," he said, giving them each a nod of greeting. "Now, erm... what, exactly, are you doing at my house?"

They stared blankly at him for a moment. "... _your_ house?" Pepper said quietly, paling as she realised what she'd walked them into.

"Course it's my house. Whose else would it be?" he said rhetorically. He took a step forward to pick up another box from the cart, but hesitated as they all gave a collective flinch away. "What? Something the matter?"

"You're... you're a Roman. A real one!" Brian squeaked before anyone else had a chance. Pepper gave him a sharp kick in the shins.

His brow creased. "Yeeeeah," he said slowly. He spread his palms. "So?"

"So, we've all heard the stories," Adam said, taking a defensive stance in front of his friends. "That Roman lords go around nicking people out of their homes and taking them away, and that you never put down your swords."

"Tell me where you see a sword on me right now," he said dryly, giving them a full turn to prove he wasn't armed. "See? And I'm not a lord. I'm just rich."

"How come you're doing servants' work, then?" Pepper challenged, jabbing a finger at the laden cart.

He shrugged, stepping around them this time without any problems. "I don't have servants," he said, hauling a crate into his arms with a grunt of effort. 

"Who was that man with you on the cart yesterday, then?" Adam asked, following him toward the house. His curiosity far outweighed the horror stories he'd heard about romans, and besides, this one didn't seem that bad. 

"Been spying on me already, have you?" he replied, arching a brow at him. Adam only shrugged, and looked expectantly at him for an answer. Crowley smirked. "You'll figure it out when you're older."

He paused, his brow creasing. He recalled the way they'd looked at one another yesterday. "Are you in love with him?"

Crowley almost dropped the box. "... or you'll figure it out now, that works too," he said, squarely between impressed and dismayed. He shot a warning glance at the three children. "Keep that to yourselves, all right? We don't want any trouble."

"S'alright. My cousin Allen ran off with a man too," Brian said with a shrug.

Pepper nodded. "I liked him. He was smart," she said, the gave a disdainful glance back in the direction of the village. "Not like most people back there."

Crowley hummed, an impressed smile finding his face. "Huh. Not bad, kid," he said, before turning to continue back inside. 

They hung around at the entrance to the house for a while, watching Crowley move boxes in from the cart. He said Aziraphale was in the bath, when they asked. Brian wrinkled his nose up at the mere mention of the B word. As he and Pepper plied the Roman with questions, Adam's attention began to drift, eventually landing on a pile of white cloth on a nearby chair. It looked like the clothes that he'd seen Crowley's companion wearing the day before. Something glinted on top of the linen. He glanced over to the cart, where the stranger was wrestling with an unwieldy crate, and he spied his chance. He darted over, grabbing the pendant from the top of the cloth before sitting back down again. 

Pepper leaned in, looking over his shoulder. "What did you just take?" she whispered.

He opened his palms, not quite sure himself. "Something expensive, probably," he said. It was a silver Celtic knot, hanging on a strip of leather. "What's it to him, anyway? He said it himself, he's rich. They prob'ly both are."

"But if he notices - "

"He won't, Pep," he said, stuffing it into his pocket. "It's just a necklace. They won't miss it."

Aziraphale got out of the bath, drying himself off with no hurry. Crowley had convinced him to wash while he unpacked the crates, arguing that after playing slave-and-master for so long, he ought to start doing some work for himself. This was Crowley, starting fresh. As Aziraphale dozed in the warm water, he could've sworn he heard voices outside, but wrote it off as nothing. He'd go look if he heard screaming, he reasoned with himself. Otherwise, it probably wasn't that important. 

Wrapped in a towel, he nudged the door open, peeking out just in case anyone was still around. He didn't see anybody. With a sigh of relief, he reached across to where he'd left his clothes on the chair. He dropped the towel, shrugging his toga back on. He paused, feeling like something was amiss. He looked down at himself, smoothing his hands over the white cloth, until his palm came to rest on his chest. With a jolt, he realised what was missing.

He looked everywhere for the Celtic knot he'd left on the chair. He knew he'd put it there... he didn't want to get it wet, fearful of damaging it, and he'd been certain it was safe. "Crowley!" he cried out hoarsely. 

Footsteps came running immediately. "Angel?" he cried, skidding around a corner. Aziraphale didn't have time to admire his new clothes before he spoke.

"I left my pendant on here. Did you take it?" he asked desperately, pointing at the chair. 

"What? No, I didn't touch it," he said, relaxing slightly now he saw there was no danger. "Are you sure you put it down there? You didn't take it with you?"

"I'm positive," he said. He scoured the floor, growing more distressed by the second. "Oh - oh dear - Crowley, what if I've lost it?"

He looked over at him, tears prickling at his eyes already. Crowley's heart cracked. He rushed forward, taking his hands, hushing him. "Hey, hey, you haven't lost it. It's okay," he said in a low, comforting voice. He looked him dead in the eye, trying to ground him. "We'll find it. It can't have gone far. I mean, no one else is here but us. Well, and those village kids from - oh hang on... Oh, those little _bastards!"_

Adam didn't know what to do with the necklace, now he had it. He'd heard plenty about buying and selling things like this at markets, but the town market wouldn't be on for days yet. The best idea he had was going to see Edan, the blacksmith. He was old, far too old to be working as hard as he did, according to Adam's mother, but he knew his metals. Maybe he'd even buy it... 

Pepper and Brian refused to visit the forge with him. He spent most of the morning trying to talk them into it, but they wouldn't hear him. Edan was one of the few adults in town that they paid any mind to. He was short-tempered, blunt and not afraid to drag any of them back to their parents' house by their ear. Eventually, Adam gave up on his friends and started out toward the forge on his own. It was within sight when he felt a hand close around the back of his shirt.

"There you are," snarled a familiar voice.

Adam gave a yelp as he was dragged back, stumbling slightly over his own feet. He took a sharp gasp, slowly looking up to meet the yellowish, burning glare above him. "H... Hi, Mr Antonius," he said hesitantly, attempting his best innocent smile. He was keenly aware of the gleaming sword now strapped to his hip. "Visiting town?"

"Don't play dumb with me. You know why I'm here," he said, his hands claw-like around Adam's arm. He looked much more Roman now than he had before; he'd draped enough jet-black silk over his Celtic clothes that his wealth and origin would be completely unmistakable. It was an effective scare tactic.

"No I don't!" he said, the word stumbling out of his mouth in a panic. He writhed in his grip, trying to pry his hand away, to no avail. "Let me go!"

Crowley didn't loosen his grip. He wasn't holding tight enough to hurt him, but he certainly wasn't going anywhere. Adam suddenly regretted leaving his friends behind. If all of them were here, he wouldn't be able to keep hold of all three of them. "You're not going anywhere until you give me back that pendant," he said firmly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to take what isn't yours?"

Adam squirmed, now seriously considering biting his hand to break free, when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He immediately brightened. He knew the half-hunched, broad figure emerging from the blacksmith's very well, and he'd never been happier to see it. "Edan!" he cried.

Crowley turned. He straightened up slightly, keeping Adam in place while he faced the blacksmith. Edan's hair clung to his head in pale wisps, bringing out his age almost as much as the wrinkled, leathery skin of his face. Despite his age, he was still well-muscled, with hands that looked callused to the bone. His eyes were a frightening, hollow blue. Something in the back of Crowley's mind said that this man looked familiar, somehow. 

"Hmph. Should've known," Edan grunted, stepping further out onto the dusty ground. His fist was closed tight around a hammer. "Let the boy go, Roman."

"I will," he said slowly, holding his gaze. He flexed his free hand, poised to draw his sword. "...when he returns what belongs to me."

Edan sneered. "What, don't like it when someone else steals from you?" he said sarcastically. "Your kind are all thieves."

"Charming," he said, raising his brows, not feeling entirely surprised. He couldn't blame him for that. Many of these people will have seen men like Hastur, and only them. Crowley wouldn't like Romans either if that's all he'd seen... which wasn't far from the truth. "I'm not looking to cause trouble. I just want my stuff back."

Adam scowled, kicking the dirt. "It was only one thing..."

Edan sighed deeply. "Just give back whatever you took, boy. We don't want his kind hanging around here any longer than they need to," he said, gesturing distastefully at Crowley with the hammer.

Ignoring him, Crowley held out his hand expectantly. Adam stared back at him defiantly. Crowley arched a brow at him, and finally, he gave in. He reached into his pocket, taking out the Celtic knot and letting it dangle over his palm for a moment before he let it drop. In that instant before Crowley's fist closed around it, Edan's jaw went slack. His knees almost failed him. At first, he thought his old eyes had deceived him, but no. He'd seen it right enough. Right there, glinting in the sun, was a piece of jewellery that he hadn't seen in decades. 

Crowley slipped the pendant over his head, relieved. Edan flinched, rage sparking in his gut to see it hanging around the neck of a Roman. "Where the hell did you get your filthy mitts on that?" he barked, lurching forward as if to snatch it back from him.

Crowley was too quick, darting out of arm's reach. "Hey! Hands to yourself," he said, grabbing the pendant protectively. "Why d'you need to know? It belongs in _my_ house, that's all I care about."

"You lying snake," he said, backing away with a wary glance at the sword on his belt. He'd never be able to swing his hammer before the Roman drew his sword; as a young man, maybe, but not anymore. "You stole it!"

He rolled his eyes, already walking away. "Whatever you want to believe, mate, but I'm taking it home with me," he said dismissively. He gave a sharp whistle, and his horse came to meet him at the corner of a nearby house. He swung a leg over into the saddle. "Are we done here? I have someone at home who wants their necklace back."

Edan's stomach turned again. Adam was by his side, looking between the two men in befuddlement. Edan's mind had turned sour with resentment, finding that he hated the idea of some Roman's perfect Italian wife wearing the pendant even more than he hated seeing it around his neck. Maybe he'd even give it to his daughter, if he had one. Edan's fists clenched. It wasn't _meant_ for them. He knew that better than anyone. 

"Run home, Roman. No one wants you here," he said tightly. He wanted him out of his sight. He also wanted that pendant back in his hands again, where it belonged, but he couldn’t have both. 

Crowley gave a short nod, and kicked his horse into motion. It took off town the road, its hooves clattering on the stone as he faded out of view. Adam watched until he was gone. He shot a small side-glance at Edan, his gut churning with nerves. "Did I do something really bad?" he asked nervously. 

"No, boy. You didn't."

"But... you seemed really angry, seeing that necklace," he said, nodding in the direction of the hill that masked the Roman House.

"I was. That doesn't belong to him any more than it does to you," he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and giving it a fortifying squeeze.

His brow furrowed. "How do you know?"

"Because I was the one who made it," he replied tautly.


	12. Avalon’s Ghost

Aziraphale almost fainted in relief when he saw the Celtic knot hanging around Crowley's neck. He'd stayed at home to search high and low for it, making sure it hadn't somehow been misplaced while the crates were moving around. Once the pendant was back around his neck, he felt complete again. For many years, the necklace had been the closest thing he had to family - or at least, it had been, until he found Crowley. 

"You're going to need some new clothes," Crowley said while they prepared lunch together. He gestured at Aziraphale's toga with a long fork. "That isn't going to do you much good, especially when winter rolls around."

He glanced down at himself. "Hm... I suppose," he said. "Where did you get yours from? I didn't notice you hop off to any markets en route."

"S'cause I didn't. I've been here before, remember?" he said with a shrug. "Wherever I go, I always dress local. I've got traditional clothing from all over the empire."

"How very sensitive of you, dear," he said approvingly, taking a spoonful of broth from the cooking pot to taste. Letting it sit on his tongue for a moment, he decided it needed more salt. "Many men of your standing aren't nearly so tolerant of other cultures."

"It's just good fashion, angel," he replied, still loath to be called anything inherently positive. He couldn't yet quite bring himself to believe he might deserve it. "Sensitivity has nothing to do with it."

"If you say so, dear," he said with a wry smile. Crowley blushed slightly, looking away with a forced scowl. There was a moment of peaceful silence as the pot simmered, filling the room with delicious scents, layered with herbs and spices. "You weren't too harsh with the village children, were you?"

He arched a brow. "Nah," he said. "It was one of the boys who had the necklace. He didn't want to give it up, though. Had to wait until the blacksmith came out and made him give it back."

"Ah, what a nice man."

He grimaced. "Not really," he said. "He wasn't a big fan of Romans. He accused me of stealing it, too, soon as I had it back. Fair enough, I suppose. It's not often you see a Roman wearing Celtic jewellery."

"I do hope you told him you were only passing it on to its rightful owner," he said sternly.

"I think I mentioned it," he said with a wave of his hand. "It wasn't the first thing going through my mind at the time, angel. He looked about ready to clobber me. I just wanted to get out of there."

"At least you remembered to take your sword," he said, nodding at the weapon over on the table. He gave a hum of agreement.

"Maybe you should have one too, just in case..."

Aziraphale scoffed. "Me, with a sword? I should think not!" he said haughtily, turning his nose up. "Decent books and good food, that's far more my speed."

"S'pose. I'll just have to make sure I look after you, then," he said, chuckling indulgently. 

"Quite right too."

Anathema was not a normal villager. She was sharp, literate, and adept in all sorts of herbal medicines. If you had a problem, she was usually the person who could give the most sensible advice. It wasn't always what you wanted to hear, but that was besides the point. If you wanted kind words, see Madame Tracey instead. These two very different wise women sat at the edge of town, watching the wind stir the grasslands. They liked to make predictions based on the patterns of weather and nature through the year, even if their approaches differed drastically.

"Ooh, that was a strong gust!" Tracey said, thrilled as the bracing wind blew by. "That means there'll be good crops this year, I think."

"Or there’ll be storms."

"Anathema, dear, you're always so pessimistic," she chided gently. "Just like your Aunt Agnes..."

"No one could make predictions like her," she said wistfully. She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself. Many people had decried Aunt Agnes as a witch... oh, how she longed to be that creditable. "She was never wrong."

"Oh I don't know about that, dearie," Tracey said, pursing her lips. "She spent many a Samhain promising poor Edan that he'd get to see his family again. That was cruel, if you ask me."

Anathema scowled. "Agnes's prophecies didn't always come true right away. Sometimes you had to be patient," she said defensively. "I still believe what she said."

She hummed sceptically, turning her gaze back toward the open fields. "I'm not sure Edan does," she murmured. "He gave up hope long ago."

There was a somber silence as another cold gust of wind ruffled the landscape. They eventually decided that nature had told them all it wanted to for now, and that they would head back into town. The market was on today. It usually attracted a decent crowd from smaller neighbouring villages, and Tracey had taken to teasing Anathema for taking a fancy to that Newt, the carpenter's boy from the next town over. He was hopeless at carpentry, to be sure, but Anathema privately thought that he'd make a good house-husband. Her apothecary made more than enough money for two, after all.

They browsed the stalls together, taking turns to read the auras of the goods they found. Tracey said most things were good and useful. Anathema was prone to disagree. She was far more pragmatic, and she had an eye for quality. Just as she was trying to explain to Tracey that the necklace she was holding was in fact tin (not silver), she felt a powerful grip on her arm.

"What?" she said sharply, feeling an electrifying spark of shock off her aura. "Tracey?"

The older woman stared, bug-eyed, through the milling crowds in the village green. "Dear me, Anathema, I - I think I've just seen a ghost," she cried.

Anathema fixed her with a sceptical glance. "What, again?" she said, arching a brow. It would be the third 'ghost' Tracey had seen this year. "I thought we'd agreed to disagree about the existence of an afterlife, Tracey."

"No, no, I mean, I saw someone. Really!" she insisted, craning her neck to see through the throng. "Someone I knew, a long time ago, just for an instant..."

"You must be mistaken," she said stridently. She turned back to the stall they'd been looking at, casting a critics eye over the wares as the vendor sweated nervously. "Ghosts aren't real."

"Humour me," Tracey said stubbornly, dragging her away from the stall. 

Anathema protested only for a moment before giving in. She and Tracey did this to one another sometimes. It was part of their dynamic; they almost never saw eye to eye, but even so, they always humoured one another. She trailed her through the crowds. Tracey looked back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of her so-called ghost. She had little hope amongst the crowd, which was constantly moving and changing like sand upon a beach. Even so, Anathema knew when she'd seen it. Her nails dug into her arm her again, and she jabbed a finger across the way, toward a vegetable stall. 

"Him!" she cried triumphantly. 

Anathema looked. By the stall across the green, a white-haired man leaned over a stall overflowing with fresh vegetables, perched enthusiastically on the balls of his feet. His clothes looked brand new, with beige trousers and a brilliant white undershirt beneath a brown tunic which he kept absent-mindedly tugging at, clearly unaccustomed to wearing such a thing. A pricey fur-collared cloak sat on his shoulders, clasped in place by a pair of golden wings. He chatted enthusiastically to the vendor, his face more open and friendly than any Anathema had seen before. 

"That's a man, not a ghost," she said, turning to Tracey again. She was vaguely surprised to find that they had been chasing after a real person after all, instead of one of her so-called 'visions'. "Do you know him?"

"No," she replied vacantly, hurrying in his direction.

Anathema stared after her with a mixture of disbelief, exasperation and a hint of respect. Shaking herself out of it, she picked up her skirts and gave chase, fearful of what she might say to the poor man. 

"You!" Tracey cried as soon as she was within earshot. The man looked up in surprise.

"Yes?" he said, glancing over his shoulder quickly as if to make sure they were definitely talking to him. 

Tracey stooped in front of him, panting slightly. "Well, bless my socks! I never thought - even for a second - I'd see that face again! Or something like it, anyway," she said, giving him a coy wink.

The man shrank back slightly, exchanging a helpless glance with the market stall vendor. "Um... terribly sorry, madam, but do we know each other?" he said uneasily. He sounded quite upper-class, with a surprisingly Italian twang in his accent on every few words. It was subtle, but noticeable. 

Anathema took Tracey's arm, smiling apologetically. "No, not at all. We're very sorry to have bothered you," she said, trying to tug her friend away. The last thing they needed was to get on the nerves of some wealthy merchant, who was probably only stopping in briefly on his way to Londinium.

Tracey hissed in frustration, batting her hand away. "Tell me," she said, turning toward the newcomer with a very serious stare. "Does the name Avalon mean anything to you?"

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Yes. That... that was my mother's name," he said hesitantly. 

Tracey clapped both hands over her mouth with a squeal. Her eyes immediately became damp with tears as she stared at him in a whole new light. Aziraphale flinched, looking at Anathema with rapidly mounting concern. To his chagrin, the other woman had apparently been taken up in the shock too.

"You mean... Avalon, the one who was...?" she said, in quiet awe. She shamelessly cast an eye over Aziraphale.

"I'm sorry, who _are_ you people?" he demanded, pouting slightly and crossing his arms. He'd had quite enough of being left out of the loop. 

"Ah - oh, I'm so sorry, silly me," Tracey said, wiping her eyes. "You look just like her - like Avalon. When I first saw you, I thought you _were_ her!"

Aziraphale blinked, his arms falling slack by his sides. "You knew my mother?" he said, voice cracking slightly. To him, the whole world suddenly stopped turning. 

"Oh, yes. You're the spitting image of her," she said, reaching up to touch his face. Her lips twitched into a melancholy smile, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "You have her face, make no mistake. Seeing you, it's... it's like having her back again."

Anathema suddenly gasped in realisation, and leaned in to whisper something in Tracey's ear. She gave a start, and another short shriek. "Goodness me!" she said, flustered, and beginning to flap her hands. "Yes, yes, you're right! This way - um - what did you say your name was, dearie?"

"Aziraphale," he said, dazed, allowing himself to be pulled along away from the village green.

"Ah! She named you after your grandfather after all, then," she laughed. Anathema grinned broadly too, guiding Aziraphale along through the houses. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates, his whole posture rigid with shock. Reality hadn't sunk in yet. He didn't have the presence of mind to question where they were taking him. 

They came to a halt outside a round stone building. Smoke billowed out the top, and fire flickered from within. The scent of heated metal hit his nose immediately. It was the blacksmith's forge, and he could hear someone within, repeatedly striking something against the anvil. For a reason he couldn't pinpoint, his heart skipped a beat. Something was about to change; he could feel it in his very bones. 

Tracey wrenched open the door, rushing inside. The sound of clanging metal stopped, and there was a halfhearted scuffle from inside. Aziraphale fidgeted uncomfortably. Anathema held his elbow, and he wasn't sure if she was comforting him, or making sure he didn't bolt. A shadow began to emerge from the building, long and ungainly... the blacksmith emerged from the dark. When Aziraphale met his gaze, he was stunned to see his own eyes staring back at him. Edan froze. 

"Agnes was right, Edan," Anathema said softly, with a light smile. She let go of his arm and took a step back, letting Tracey take over.

She took Edan's arm, bringing him closer even as his feet dragged harshly in the gravel. A choked noise escaped his throat, but no words. "No," he croaked, shaking his head. Aziraphale shied away slightly, fiddling with his hands. He suspected the truth, even if no one had said it. "No. It can't be."

Edan could remember Avalon's face as clearly as if he'd woken up beside her that morning... only he hadn't. The last time he'd seen her, she was being dragged from the village, kicking and screaming and desperately trying to shield her pregnant belly from her kidnappers... He could see her now, in the line of Aziraphale's jaw, in the slight upturn at the end of his nose, in the colour of his skin and even the way he fiddled with his hands. She'd always done the same. His heart twisted painfully. It was like she'd returned from the dead, somehow, after all these decades.

Tracey smiled patiently at Aziraphale. "This is your father, dear. His name is Edan," she said. Aziraphale let out a small noise of acknowledgement; he'd guessed, but to hear it out loud... His knees were very close to giving out. She looked back up at the blacksmith, who had turned an unhealthy white pallor. "Edan... Meet your son, Aziraphale."

She stepped back, joining Anathema, to watch the two men. Neither moved. They stared at one another in abject disbelief, which steadily softened into realisation, fear and a sensation of unshakable vertigo. Edan took half a step closer. Aziraphale tensed up, but didn't move back, swallowing hard on his nerves. Something had cut his vocal chords. A warm stream of tears began to track down his cheeks, taking in his father's face anew. His mother had told stories about him sometimes; the handsome face she'd always described had aged, but he saw flickers of her descriptions. He had a strong jaw and blue eyes just like his own, with a long white scar curling up toward his right eye from the time she'd accidentally distracted him while he was still working as an apprentice. He sucked in a deep breath. 

"H - Hello there," Aziraphale said hoarsely. He had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. He gave a nervous chuckle, unable to gauge his stunned expression. "Mother always did say you were tall."

Edan's impassive face finally crumpled. "My son," he said, in barely a whisper. He took him gently by the shoulders. "I... I have a son..."

Aziraphale found himself pulled into a crushing hug. For a man of his age, his father was still incredibly strong. He couldn't move for a moment. With a shivering sob, he finally managed to return the gesture, desperately trying to choke back his emotions. He heard Tracey coo over the scene. Anathema hushed her and shooed her away, insisting they allow the reunion to take its own course without them. They'd done their part. 

The hug lasted for a few seconds before Edan sharply pulled back, gripping his arms with sudden urgency. "Avalon! Your mother, is she - ? Is she still - ?" he said, looking up over his shoulder as if hoping to see her coming around the corner, too.

Aziraphale cringed, avoiding his gaze. A familiar spasm of grief touched his heart. He gave a tiny shake of his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. All the strength seemed to drain out of Edan's body. "She died when I was a young man."

Edan collapsed against the wall of his forge, letting it take his weight as he breathed deep and heavy. For almost fifty years, he'd assumed the worst. Now, it had been confirmed. "Who killed her?" he said darkly.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. "Nobody. She was very ill. There was nothing anyone could do," he said. He was slightly taken aback. "Why on earth would you assume she was killed?"

He curled his lip. "It was the Romans who took her away in the first place. I'd always assumed they finished the job," he spat, decades of bitterness showing through. Aziraphale flinched. It suddenly faded again when he looked back at his son's face. "But they didn't get you, did they? They didn't get my boy."

"W - Well, perhaps not _exactly_ as you might imagine - " he stammered, avoiding his gaze by shooting a nervous glance skyward. "I - erm- was a slave, you see, up until recently."

Edan seethed. "A slave!" he cried angrily, jumping back to his feet. "I should have known. You speak just like those Roman aristocrats."

He crossed his arms, scowling. "Well, there really is no need for that sort of comment," he said snappily. 

That pulled him up short. He blinked in surprise, before he descended into a nostalgic laughter. "You mother used to use that same tone of voice," he said, a distant flicker of love in his eyes. Even after all these years, Avalon still held his heart. "I didn't mean anything by it, I'm sorry. Now come inside, boy. We have a lot to talk about."

Aziraphale hardly thought to look over his shoulder as his father guided him into the dim forge. The air was sooty and warm, making him cough slightly. The glow of the coals strained to light the room alone, until Edan lit an oil lamp. He looked around, feeling self-conscious about his cluttered workspace for the first time in decades. He grabbed a spare stool from the corner, dusting it off and trying not to give away his nerves. Aziraphale was well-dressed in brand new clothes, the quality of which marked him out as a man who lived very comfortably. Edan wondered how that could be. He'd been a slave until recently, hadn't he said? Perhaps he'd bought his own freedom, but that still didn't explain how he'd come across the money for fine clothes and golden jewellery!

Aziraphale settled on the stool with a polite smile. Edan sat opposite him, rubbing the back of his neck. "So," he said haltingly. The courage that had come with the shock had quickly worn off. "Where have you been, all these years?"

"Rome, mostly," he said, thinking back to the familiar city streets that were now so far away. "I was passed around a few households, after mother passed away, but I only ever had a handful of masters. My last two were really very kind, very kind indeed..."

He scoffed, resisting the urge to spit on the ground at all this talk of Romans. Aziraphale seemed too refined for that, which is honestly the last thing he'd expected to discover about his own son. "That clasp on your cloak," he said, gesturing to it, needing a change of topic. "Can I see it? Just for the sake of a craftsman's curiosity."

"Oh - um, I suppose," he said, looking down at it. It was the toga clasp Crowley had bought him, seemingly a lifetime ago now. He reluctantly unclipped it, hesitating as he held it out. "Do be careful with it. It's very precious to me."

"I can imagine," he said, handling it with care, tilting it back and forth to let the lamplight catch on the details. "It has skilled hands behind it, that's for sure. Real gold, too. Where did you come across it?"

He blushed slightly, an unbidden grin finding his face. "It was a gift," he said. "My - ah, erm... my lover gave it to me, the day I became a free man."

His eyes immediately snapped back onto him. "You have a lover?" he said in surprise. It hadn't even occurred to him yet that his son might have someone, but he guessed he ought to have expected it. He was a grown man, after all. Aziraphale hummed in affirmation, avoiding his gaze. Edan sensed that this was a source of apprehension, and proceeded tentatively. "Can I at least know their name...?"

He swallowed hard. "Crowley," he mumbled, hardly above a whisper.

Edan nodded, looking back at the wing clasp as he immediately realised the cause of his son's discomfort. Crowley was a man's name. He was well aware of that, and he let that fact sit with him for a moment. He didn't feel any disgust rising in him. There was no disappointment, or shock, or pain. He'd never really considered the prospect of having a son with a male bedmate before now, but he quickly discovered that he didn't really care, as long as he _had_ a son in the first place. Decades of loneliness would make damn sure that you had some perspective about what really mattered.

"I'd like to meet him, if he's here with you," he said finally. He handed back the wing clasp. "He has good taste in craftsmanship."

Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief, hearing the calm acceptance in his voice. "Yes, he arrived with me," he said, clasping the wings back onto his cloak. "I wouldn't have been able to come all this way without his help. It was his idea, actually, to come here."

He grunted. "Italian, is he?" he said. Aziraphale nodded. Edan mulled that over, too... that was a harder pill to swallow, but being Italian wasn't necessarily the same as being Roman, and it certainly wasn't the same as being a wealthy slave-owning aristocrat. So, he said nothing for a moment. "And how does he treat you?"

"Very well," he said, suddenly overcome with a look that Edan knew very well. He had to smile; his boy was in love, and he had it bad. "I've never met a man as kind as him, for all he tries to hide it. He looks after me."

He was glad to hear it. "Well, you aren't the only people to arrive here recently. You need to watch each other's backs more than ever, now you're home," he warned, his mind suddenly returning to the Roman noble from days before. 

"We do?" he said, suddenly on-edge.

"Hm. A few days ago, there was a Roman skulking around in the village. One of the local children had taken something from him," he said, curling his lip in anger. "It wasn't his anyway. He's a thief just as much as the boy."

"Is that so..." he said slowly, becoming suddenly very conscious of the weight of the Celtic knot around his neck. The pendant rested out of view, in-between his shirt and tunic. He swiped his tongue briefly over his lips. "What was stolen?"

"That's the whole point of telling you. It was a necklace," he said, hanging his head slightly, massaging his palm to calm his anger. "I'd know it anywhere. I made it when I was still an apprentice blacksmith, to give to your mother. It was the last gift I ever gave her, before she was taken - and now, ha! They took that from her, too. You've probably never seen it. It was - "

"A silver Celtic knot," he interrupted impulsively. He gripped his knees tightly, his spine ramrod straight with nerves. 

Edan gawked. "That's right," he said. His surprise quickly gave way to suspicion. "How did you...?"

He smiled sheepishly, reaching under his tunic and tentatively pulling out the pendant. "Ta-dah," he said weakly, attempting levity. It fell flat. He gave an awkward cough. "It, erm... seems as if you and Crowley have already met, then."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Images flashed in Edan's head: the hawk-faced Roman he'd seen outside his forge, armed and draped in dark Italian silk. His whole demeanour had screamed wealth and status. He lived in the Roman House over the hill, the finest and largest home in the valley, constructed of marble, plaster and terracotta, lined with mosaics of their epic stories and foreign gods. Edan knew all this. He'd visited that house before, many times, in the years it had sat empty in the fields. He'd grown bitter, used it to fuel his anger that such a rich home was left vacant while whole families lived in single-room mud huts not far away. He could never bear to stay in there for long. 

"You... you're sleeping with a _Roman?"_ he hissed, eventually managing to force the revelation out from between his teeth. That was Roman with a big, glaring capital R, laden with all the money, power, and powerful stigma that went along with it. 

"Um... yes?" he said, cringing back as he made the admission with a sheepish smile.

Crowley was really trying to fit in. He'd completely forgone the toga, replacing it with his black Celtic outfit, though he had to admit he'd splashed out a little. He'd bought the finest, softest cloth, and picked out a sleek black fur-lined cloak, fully aware of what the coming winter would hold. Try as he might, though, he still couldn't hide his face. His sharp features were typically Roman, much to his own chagrin, and his accent always seemed to confirm the vendors' worst fears. They all sweated nervously as he browsed their stalls, no matter how polite he was. The sword on his hip probably wasn't helping, but he didn't trust the village enough yet to leave it at home. 

Aziraphale had wandered off some time ago, in search of some food stalls. He was going to teach Crowley how to cook and, once he'd mastered that, he'd learn how to clean too. He had no intention of sitting back and letting Aziraphale do all the work. He'd had enough of that. There would never again be a slave in his house, he was absolutely determined. He paced up the line of stalls, up toward the food vendors where he expected Aziraphale would be. He assumed he wouldn't be too hard to find. He was, unfortunately, correct.

"CROWLEY!" Aziraphale screamed, hoarse and fearful, somewhere beyond the market. Crowley's heart dropped.

He bolted in the direction of the shout. The noise had barely broken out from the hum of the market, but Aziraphale may as well have screamed it directly into Crowley's ear. He'd been dreading the day he might hear that scream. Many nights in Italy, he'd laid awake, terrified that someone would try to take his lover away from him, even though he knew he was just a short walk away in the villa. They'd come all this way to be safe. The very idea of being caught out now made his whole being burn with rage. He shouldered his way through the crowds of market-goers, growing increasingly furious with anyone who dared get in his way.

"Move!" he barked, barging past. He couldn't hear Aziraphale anymore. He'd gone quiet, and the implications of the silence began to stir the dark, cynical corners of Crowley's mind.

He found himself amongst a cluster of mud-huts, twisting this way and that, heart hammering as he strained to listen. "Aziraphale! Aziraphale!" he cried, with only the wind whistling in his ears to reply. He swallowed hard, fear prickling across his skin. "Aziraphale? I can't find you! For gods' sake!"

He breathed heavily, about to go charging in a another random direction when another noise struggled over the heady silence. Someone was shouting. _Aha!_ Crowley thought, turning to sprint in that direction. All the while, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. 

He rounded the corner, face twisted into his best war-snarl. He recognised the blacksmith from the other day, holding Aziraphale by his wrist as he tried to struggle away, his free hand clawing at the fingers curled around his arm. "Just - just let me go!" he pleaded, trying desperately to stay calm. "Let's just be civil about this, yes?"

"Civil! Bah!" the old man retorted, looming over him as he dragged him closer. "You're practically one of them, wanting all the world to be _civilised_."

Crowley finally got within threatening distance, drawing their attention with a harsh shout. "Oi!" he said, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. The blacksmith turned, eyeing him with a potent mix of rage and grief. Undeterred, Crowley held the tip of the blade toward him and spoke in a low, serious tone. "Put him down."

"Or what?" he snapped, tightening his grip. Crowley desperately wanted to soften his expression, send Aziraphale a comforting smile, and just take him home... but he couldn't afford to take his eyes off the attacker.

"Let me make this clear," he said, narrowing his eyes, muscles coiled to strike. "Either you remove your hand, or I remove your hand. Your choice."

Edan's glare burned hot against Crowley's, pale blue against mottled yellow. Aziraphale's heart pounded, the tempo building until it threatened to break a rib. "What? So you can take him away from me again?" Edan said, his voice shaking. Aziraphale winced, but felt his grip loosen.

"What?" Crowley said, scrunching his nose his confusion. "Mate, I don't know what kind of smoke you've been inhaling in that workshop of yours, but you need to calm down. I don't want to hurt you."

Edan's grip slackened again, and Aziraphale quickly twisted free. He felt Edan's hand brush against his cloak, falling just short of recapturing him. Crowley opened his free arm, letting Aziraphale barrel into him to cling tightly to his side, trying to calm his ragged breathing. He kept the sword outstretched, his eyes trained on Edan, while Aziraphale shakily leaned up on his tiptoes to whisper an explanation into his ear. His eyes widened. 

"What, you mean - ? _This_ is your dad? Seriously?" he said in disbelief. Aziraphale nodded. One brow arched, Crowley cast a judgemental eye over the blacksmith. "Huh. You must have gotten your looks from your mother, then."

He gave a scandalised gasp. "Crowley! This is serious!" he said, elbowing him in the ribs. 

Edan scoffed. "You shouldn't be surprised. We're all just a joke to them," he said, though his eyes didn't leave Crowley's face. "You can't trust him, Aziraphale."

He swallowed hard, feeling Crowley's gaze out of the corner of his eye. "You're wrong," he replied, his voice barely loud enough to carry over the wind. He forced himself to raise his chin, defiant. 

"You're a fool! Don't you remember, these are the men who took your mother and sold her into slavery?" he bellowed, his aged vocal chords straining, choked with emotion. He lurched forward, and Crowley swung the blade in warning. Edan backed off again. "Don't you have anything to say? Or are you going to stand there hiding behind him all day like a coward?"

Aziraphale wet his lips, struggling for the words. He shrunk back closer to Crowley's side, feeling him rubbing reassuring circles on his back even as his expression remained icy. "He - He isn't what you think!" he cried hoarsely.

Edan's lip curled, dragging his eyes over the scene. He took a deep, measured breath through his nose. "You're a traitor to your own blood, boy," he said, quiet yet unmistakable. 

Aziraphale deflated slightly. "Then so be it," he said tiredly, feeling the admission like a punch to the gut. If he had to make a choice, he'd pick the man who really loved him. He leant his head against Crowley's shoulder. "I'd like to go home now, my love."

"Whatever you like, angel," he replied softly, in words meant only for him. Edan heard them anyway, feeling an old wound reopen over his heart as he watched Aziraphale turn and walk away, arm in arm with his lover. Decades ago, he'd lost his wife to Roman invaders; now, he lost his son to them, too. 

Whispers spread through town quickly. It was an open secret that Tracey was behind them, who had completely forgotten her original scepticism about Agnes's final unresolved prophecy. Avalon's son had returned! The village elders all remembered the young blonde before she was kidnapped, always bouncing around the forge hoping to catch the attention of the handsome blacksmith's apprentice. They recognised Aziraphale immediately for who he was, whenever he was spotted in the village. They daren't approach him, though. He was always stood beside the surly-faced Roman who had just moved in, providing a perfect sunny counterbalance to his prickly demeanour. Still... seeing as no one was especially keen to lose any limbs, they kept their distance from the pair whenever they could. It wasn't hard. They spent the vast majority of their time in their home over the hill, and it didn't take much imagination to realise what they got up to in their free time. Once that became clear, and Edan hadn't left his forge for at least a week, Tracey began to smell a rat. 

She didn't knock before she barged into his workshop. "Edan," she said, plastering an unabashedly friendly smile onto her face. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement, not looking away from the horseshoe he was shaping. "Good afternoon, dearie. How have you been, hm?"

"Fine," he said tightly. He tossed the finished horseshoe to one side, picking up another piece of metal.

She hummed. "How are things going with Aziraphale?" she asked, a hint of knowing suspicion in her tone. "Well?"

His lip curled, turning toward her in the half-lit room. "You know full well, witch," he said. He held the metal into the sweltering heat of the forge. "He'd have been better off staying in Italy, where he belongs."

"Excuse me?" she cried, eyes wide even as her brow creased in indignation. "This is your son, Edan! Listen to yourself!"

"I am," he retorted, wrenching the metal free from the coals and moving to the anvil. He snatched a hammer, bringing it down hard on the glowing orange iron with a shower of sparks. "No son of mine shares his bed with a Roman. I've made it perfectly clear to him what I think."

She took a sharp breath, storming closer to him to jab a finger against his chest. "You stubborn old goat!" she said, hoarse with sympathy for Aziraphale. "If you've said anything to hurt him, you know full well that Avalon would have skinned you alive!"

"I told him he's a traitor to his own flesh and blood!" he roared, losing his grip on the tongues in his hand, with the half-bent horseshoe clattering to the ground with the serpentine hiss of cooling metal. Breathing laboured, he stared at it in detached shock. His wife's disappointment dug in its claws even from beyond the grave. His hands trembled. "I... I told him..."

He jumped as Tracey took his hand, her skin soft against the calluses. "I think we both know, Mister Smith, that he isn't the one who let his family down," she said quietly, fixing him with a meaningful, cutting stare. She was right. It wasn't just Aziraphale he'd turned his back on... it was Avalon, too. One tear left a burning trail down his cheek. "You've already lost him once, dear. Don't let it happen again, not this time."

"The Roman..." he rasped, letting the anvil take his weight as his age caught up to him all at once. She gave him a sharp smack around the head.

"Don't you dare let that get in the way. Mr Antonius means him no harm, nor anyone else for that matter, if you even bothered to give him the time of day," she said. She was one of the few people who had been curious enough to approach the stranger so far, and she'd found him rather charming. "He's a man in love. You and him aren't so different, in that regard, are you?"

He took a deep breath of the smoke-mottled air. She wasn't wrong. As a young man, head over heels in love with a woman who was far too good for a blacksmith's apprentice, he knew what it was like to be at the mercy of your own heart. Aziraphale had mentioned that Crowley had suggested that they return to Britain in the first place... he'd walked away from his ancestral home, just so Aziraphale could return to his own. He'd brought Edan's son home. He swallowed thickly, prejudice collapsing beneath the weight of guilt and sudden gratitude that had been held at bay by wilful ignorance. _That Roman has shown my son more dedication than I could ever show,_ he realised, like a strike to the chest.

"My mistakes are my own," he said hoarsely, feeling the last ounce of strength leave his body. He swallowed back another wave of tears. "I don't deserve to have them forgive me. Either of them."

She sighed, clasping her hands over his a little more tightly. "That doesn't mean they won't," she said. "We just need to make sure you have the chance to ask."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called, wandering through the atrium with a small scrap of parchment in his hand. It had been some time since his father's painful rejection and, while it still stung, he'd learnt not to think about it too much. He didn't want anything to taint the little slice of paradise they'd found in this corner of the empire.

"In here, angel," he called from the kitchen. Aziraphale wandered through, finding him cleaning the cooking pot from lunch. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands red and beginning to develop their very first calluses from all the domestic work he'd recently taken on. His hair was an unkempt mess. Aziraphale revelled in the scene. Crowley didn't care so much about his image anymore, not while they were alone. He felt beautiful with his angel, no matter what he looked like. Aziraphale heartily agreed.

"A young lady from town just stopped by," he said, sitting cross-legged beside him as he worked. He held out the parchment for him to see. "The village is hosting a feast, to welcome us. Now isn't that sweet?"

"It's suspicious, is what that is," he grumbled. "It's been weeks already. They're probably just trying to cosy up to the rich neighbours, hoping they'll get something out of us."

He gave him a chiding glance. "Ye of little faith," he said, shaking his head and tucking away the parchment into his pocket. "Well, whatever you think, I intend to go. It would be very rude not to."

He huffed. "Fine. I'll go, but if I'm right - "

"Which you aren't."

 _" - if I'm right,"_ he insisted, holding up a finger, "then you have to listen to me next time."

"Yes, very well then," he said, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "It's tonight, by the way, so you'd better start thinking about getting ready." 

Crowley immediately began spluttering in indignation, leaping to his feet and cursing Celts for their lack of prior warning. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. They were toothless complaints, really. 

He emerged, almost at dusk, without a hint that he'd been doing any manual work. His hair was back in its false-effortless ruffled style, his nails were meticulously picked clean of all dirt, and a fresh set of clothes hung over his frame. Aziraphale eyed him shamelessly, much to the delight of Crowley's ego. 

"Like what you see, angel?" he purred, circling him slowly. Aziraphale hummed, nodding though making no attempt to twist around and watch him move. "Well, in that case... we don't _have_ to go to the party. We could have all sorts of fun at home instead..."

That Aziraphale broke free from his lovesick stupor. "Nice try, dear," he said, lightly kissing his lips with an innocent smile before heading outside. Grumbling under his breath, Crowley followed.

They smelled smoke from over the hill before their horse even crested the ridge. As they neared, it became clear what the source was. A bonfire had been cobbled together near the village green, while musicians and dancers were already beginning to play on the grass and food was being gathered together on the tables that had been dragged out of nearby houses. Aziraphale dismounted from their horse first, striking out ahead of him to greet the villagers. Crowley huffed, finding a place to tie up the horse before he joined him.

The sun was already going down, and the fire leapt higher to replace the glare of the sun. "Hello there!" Aziraphale called when he spotted Tracey.

"Oh! Mister Aziraphale, glad you could make it," she said warmly, grasping his elbow and looking up at the fire with excitement. "Is your sweetheart here, too?"

He blushed and spluttered slightly. "W - well, I - I wouldn't quite word it that way, I - "

"Hush, now. The whole village has guessed by now that you aren't just a pair of good friends," she said knowingly. "You make a wonderful couple. And I must say, I'm very impressed. Not many of us manage to snag a man so handsome, much less a wealthy one! You've done very well for yourself, you know."

He couldn't suppress a self-satisfied grin. "Thank you," he said, noticing Crowley making his way over, oblivious. He leaned down to murmur in Tracey's ear. "Though there is rather more to him than money and good looks."

"Lucky duck," she chuckled. She and Crowley exchanged polite greetings when he reached them, with her and Aziraphale only sharing a few knowing side-glances. 

The musicians were in full flow by the time the sun went down. Light, energetic tunes filled the air to the beat of laughter and half-slurred drunken singing. Little by little, people began to work up the courage to introduce themselves to Crowley, and found that he wasn't really so scary after all. Once everyone had seen him being dragged onto the green for an unapologetically cringeworthy dance with Aziraphale, any remaining fears were immediately dispelled. The food was plentiful and hearty, and Aziraphale made sure to sample every dish over the course of the night. He was munching on a piece of rabbit when a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind.

"You know what, angel," Crowley murmured in his ear. "I'll give you this one. This was a good idea."

"Hate to say I told you so, dear," he said smugly.

"No you don't," he said, nuzzling the nape of his neck. Open affection had become more and more easy for them as the night went on, as the realisation sank in that no one really cared, so long as the Roman newcomer wasn't as cold-hearted as they'd feared. If having a male lover was all it took to keep him sweet, they'd let it slide, no questions asked. Aziraphale leaned back against him, his chest filled with fuzzy warmth that even the cold night breeze couldn't dispel. All of a sudden, he felt Crowley tense behind him.

"Crowley?" he said, twisting to look up at him. He followed his apprehensive stare, finding a tall, lumbering figure coming toward them. "Oh."

Edan could hardly make eye contact as he approached. "Aziraphale," he said quietly, his shoulders slumped and his eyes sunken. "I... I am sorry, to approach you like this. There was no other way. We, um... didn't know how else to make sure you'd be in the village."

He took a small gasp. "You can't seriously be telling me that this whole feast was just a ruse?" he said, offence and hurt bleeding into his voice as he gestured at the careless merriment still taking place all across the green. 

"Not all of it!" he said, crossing his arms defensively. He quickly forced himself to drop them again. "It was Tracey's idea. We wanted you to feel welcome, and... and I needed to see you again."

Crowley cleared his throat slightly, already feeling slightly out-of-place. "I'll, uh... just be minding my own business, then. You know," he said, nodding in the vague direction of the fire. "Over there."

Aziraphale nodded, letting him go. He wouldn't be going far. He was only ever one scream away, and always at Aziraphale's beckon call. Even so, this conversation was a family affair, and he was well aware that it was already hard enough for Edan without him lurking in the background. As he left, Aziraphale turned his eyes back on his father. He raised his chin, as if preparing to take a blow.

"Well? Here to tell me what a disappointment I am? Again?" he said dryly.

Edan shrunk back. "No. I was wrong, Aziraphale, you... you could never be a disappointment to me," he said, his voice straining over the crackle of fire and laughter that permeated the night air. "Your mother would have had my head on a spike if she'd have heard the things I said to you."

Aziraphale shot him a haughty look. "I know."

"Yes, um... of course," he said. He shot a small glance at the tall, thin figure lurking near the bonfire, the sharp lines of his face defined by the orange light. "I won't keep you for long, my boy. I just... He's good for you. I can see that now."

"You can?" he said, stumbling over his words for a moment. 

"Yes. If I didn't care that he was a man, I should never have cared that he was a Roman either," he said, forcing himself to meet his gaze. "If she were here, your mother would have been happy for you. It's the least I can do, to be the same."

Aziraphale opened his mouth, expecting to find words on his tongue. There was nothing there. Edan quickly held up a hand before he could try to force anything through. "I don't expect you to say anything in response, I - I'm not expecting you to. I just wanted to you to know... he isn't the only one who loves you," he said, taking a step back, half-turning away from him. "You're my son, Aziraphale. You always will be."

He took a deep breath, and began to walk away. He barely took three steps before a hand closed around his elbow. He turned in surprise, finding Aziraphale's eyes misty with tears. "I forgive you," he said, choked up. The words had stumbled out in a rush, one after the other, almost too fast to compute. 

Edan couldn't breathe. The clean, cold night air had become thicker than the smog hanging in his workshop, unable to drag itself down into his lungs. Aziraphale's tearful expression screamed sincerity. Without another thought, he dragged him into a hug, his face crumpling rapidly into a sobbing mess. Aziraphale hugged back with surprising strength.

Pulling back, he wiped his tears. "Oh! You must reintroduce yourself to Crowley, properly this time. You two rather got off on the wrong foot, didn't you?" he said, quickly waving his hand in the air. Crowley noticed immediately (though he would adamantly deny spying on the exchange), and hurried over. 

"All good, angel?" he asked tentatively, eyeing Edan curiously as he approached. 

"Tip-top, yes," he replied, slipping out of his father's arms and into Crowley's. "All water under the bridge, as they say."

Edan coughed slightly, holding out his hand. "Nice to meet you. Really," he said gruffly, but with sincerity. There was a tense moment when Crowley didn't move.

"Likewise," he said, shaking his hand. Aziraphale beamed. 

That night was the beginning of something new. The party went on until the bonfire lulled itself to sleep amongst the ashes, and the last flyaway embers faded out amongst the soft glow of dawn rising in the distance. Edan began to enjoy Crowley's dry humour. The village had well and truly opened its arms to their brand-new neighbours, especially after Aziraphale had a few cups of mead and thrashed the local men in an impromptu armwrestling tournament. It had certainly won him their respect. He wouldn't remember most of it by the following morning, but his father's acceptance would stay with him for a lifetime. 

The Roman House quickly dropped its stigma. The local children got into the habit of visiting to bother Crowley with questions, which he answered on the condition that they didn't run around stealing his stuff from right under his nose again. Weeks turned to months, and even though he was living in a smaller house, doing his own menial tasks, and regularly have the mick taken out of him by the local blacksmith, Crowley had never felt richer. At long last, they were free. No one spoke behind their backs, and nor did they hold lofty expectations over their heads. Anathema even arranged a wedding ceremony for them, and Edan had been thrilled to make them a set of matching rings. It wasn't technically binding, but to them, it didn't need to be. They made their vows together, under the vast open night sky, glittering with stars like a smile from the gods themselves. 

Aziraphale sat beside Crowley on the steps of their house, thinking of that summer night when they got married. He took his hand, resting his head on his collarbone, listening to Crowley absently humming a tune he remembered from Rome. That was centuries ago now, it seemed. Life had taken a long time to work out in their favour, but once it had, it was truly perfect. An owl hooted softly over the twilight landscape, its shadowy figure gliding low over the swaying grasslands. Crowley's heart warmed when he saw Aziraphale smile at the sight of the bird; he didn't need to ask what he was thinking. Tracey often claimed that owls were good omens... but then, to her, that seemed to be the only kind of omen. He poured them each some more wine and, through the night, they steadily lost themselves in a haze of drunken love. It was an evergreen emotion. It would be as strong the next morning, when their heads ached and they had places to be, as it was on these careless nights when all the world fell asleep around them. 

Soon, their hair would begin to grey, and their bones would start to creak. Crowley's joints were already beginning to ache. Together, they would grow old in their house on the hillside. For the rest of their lives, the light never faded from their eyes. The joy never vanished from their laughter. The love they shared never waned; it grew with every passing day, sprouting new stems and blossoms like the plants in Crowley's allotment. Every evening, as they fell asleep in one another's arms, their wedding vows echoed in their ears like the sweetest lullaby:

_I've waited my whole life to find you. You are half of myself; without you, I could never be whole. Wherever you lead, I will follow. Wherever you want to go, I will take you there. Wherever you are, I will be by your side. Our love will live on, even long after we are gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edan’s name is obviously done purely for the play on “Eden”, but Avalon is an old Celtic name that I found which apparently means “Isle Of Apples”... so it’s also sort of a play on “Eden”.
> 
> One more part left! This is the end of the main story, really this time. We just have the long-awaited epilogue left to go :)


	13. Epilogue: Is That You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named this chapter after the track from the Good Omens OST, “Is That You?”. Definitely worth a listen if you haven’t already :)

London, AD 2019 

Footsteps echoed around the museum halls, mingling with the low babble of chatter. Pieces of the past stared out from cabinets along every wall, interspersed with photographs and plaques of information. Thousands of years of history passed every day in that building as hundreds of visitors made their circuit through. Today, it was quiet. Not many people visited museums this close to Christmas, not when the cars outside struggled to grip the tarmac and ice coated the steps. 

Late that morning, a new visitor rushed in to escape the frost-bitten air outside. He hugged himself tightly, shuddering. He ought to have known that his usual black blazer wouldn't have been enough to keep him warm. When he'd seen the museum, and the warm light painting the ornate windows, he couldn't resist sheltering there just for a while. It was free entry, anyway. 

Sniffling and attempting to be nonchalant, he smoothed down his red hair and quickly made his way down a random hallway. He dodged the over-smiley tour guides, navigating the twisting hallways until he found a quiet corner of the museum. It had the same musty smell as the rest of it, but here, it didn't seem to bother him so much. In fact, something about it seemed almost familiar, like a smell from a distant memory in his childhood, though he couldn't begin to imagine what it was. He frowned slightly, adjusting his sunglasses as he approached one of the glass cases. 

Inside, there was a collection of jewellery. Squinting at the label, he saw that they were ancient Celtic and Roman artefacts, excavated from an unusual site in the South Downs. For a reason unknown to him, his breath caught in his throat as he saw them. A pair of metal wings, many of the fine details etched into the gold weathered by age, sat in the cabinet. It was a toga clasp, apparently. Alongside them, there was a Celtic knot strung onto a strip of leather which had already disintegrated into several pieces. Without thinking, he rested his fingertips against the glass, his heart fluttering. A pang of deep, mournful longing barrelled into him; it reminded him of staring into the casket at the funeral of a loved one. He swallowed hard. Something about this display struck a chord so deep inside him, one he hadn't known was there until today. 

He took an unsteady step backward, turning on his heel to go further down the hall. He collided with something immediately - or rather, someone.

"Oh! Oh, I am so terribly sorry, I wasn't paying a blind bit of attention just then!" the man cried as they stumbled into one another, apologising profusely and trying to dust off his blazer. 

The redhead waved him off. "It's fine, it's - " he said, his voice escaping him when he took notice of who he'd bumped into. The man was about his age, with a rosey blush over his cheeks and an apologetic smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. His hair was a glowing platinum blond, matching the pale colour of his coat. He had a tartan bow tie closing the collar of his shirt. _It's him!_ his heart cried out immediately, the words accosting him out of nowhere. It was ridiculous. He was certain he'd never seen him before in his life. 

"Good lord," said the blond stranger, equally as stunned. He took a minuscule step backward, tilting his head, taking him in anew. The dark clothes, thin frame, fiery hair... "Dreadfully sorry, but have we met? You look terribly familiar, somehow. I just can't put my finger on it."

"I know what you mean. I feel like I've seen you somewhere before," he replied, still slightly dazed. Those blue eyes had a similar effect on him to the jewellery in the glass case. He shook himself, trying a lopsided grin to cover up how shaken he was. "In another life, maybe."

He chuckled, finally beginning to shake the tension from his shoulders. "Must be," he said, humouring him. He held out his hand. "Ezra Fell. Pleasure to meet you, Mister ...?"

"Crowley. Anthony Crowley," he replied, shaking his hand. They both felt the spark as their hands met, but said nothing about the way it set their hearts racing. "Um... so, do you... come here often?"

"I work here," he replied with an amused smile, tapping the very obvious blue lanyard hanging around his neck. Crowley's eyes dropped down onto it, and he flushed slightly with embarrassment. 

"Right. Knew that..." he said, shoving one hand in his pocket as the other scratched the back of his neck. His eyes flicked over to the cabinets again, only to be swept away by another wave of emotion. "Actually... if you work here, could you tell me about all this? This display, I mean. What's it all about?"

"Oh! Certainly," he said, clasping his hands excitedly in front of his chest. He beckoned him over to the largest plaque of information, standing by it with unmistakable pride. "This is my favourite display in the whole museum. It's a remarkable case - it had quite the effect on me the first time I saw it, I don't mind telling you."

"How's that?" he asked, leaning his hip against the plaque. He was relieved to hear he wasn't the only man in the world who'd responded strangely to a few pieces of mouldy old metal. 

"What you see around you is the only example of a loving, committed, cohabiting homosexual couple in Celtic Britain during the Ancient Roman occupation," he said, beaming. He tapped on the information in front of him, running his fingers along the edge of a photograph of two skeletons beside one another, their grave open to the sunshine for the first time in centuries. "Two male skeletons were found, side by side, not far from what appeared to be their domestic home. Archaeologists speculated they may have been brothers at first, but DNA testing showed that couldn't be further from the truth. One was a native Celt, and the other an Imperial Roman."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Star-crossed lovers," he surmised, hardly thinking about the words before they crossed his lips. 

"Quite," said Ezra dreamily. "The more they excavated, the more they found, until the evidence was irrefutable. Their grave site was full of symbols of their love."

Crowley's eyes couldn't leave the soft lines of his face. Every time he felt close to remembering who he was, the realisation slipped from his grasp again with barely a whisper. "Tell me about them," he said softly.

Ezra smiled, beginning to point at various glass cases around the room, though he knew Crowley wasn't looking at them. He didn't mind. It felt familiar, somehow, having his gaze lingering on him like this. It made him feel... safe, in a way. It was like coming home after a very, very long time.

"Over there, we have the Celtic knot, which symbolises eternity, and in the adjacent cabinet there's the Knot Of Hercules, which was an essential part of the Roman marriage ceremony," he said. "Fascinatingly, the archaeologists even uncovered several small Ouroboros symbols, which of course - "

"Ourowhat?" Crowley interrupted, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

"Ouroboros, dear," he said patiently, the term of endearment slipping into his sentence as naturally as breathing. "It's a serpent, eating its own tail. It symbolises eternity, and an endless cycle of life, death and rebirth. As I was saying, it has interesting implications for what they believed may happen after death."

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, casting an eye down over the image of the grave again. The skeletons faced one another, their arms seemingly still reaching toward one another, even after all this time. "Maybe they just hoped they'd find each other again," he said quietly, drawing Ezra's attention. He met his gaze. "After it was all over."

A tiny sigh escaped Ezra's lips. "How romantic," he said in agreement, pressing his hand over his heart. "I hope they did."

"Me too," he said. Deep down, a half-forgotten part of himself could hear the irony in those words, though his conscious mind would never realise it. They stood for a moment, unbothered by the silence. In that museum, finally together again amongst the half-decayed pieces of a home long gone, they perhaps could have remembered who they once were. The moment passed too quickly for either of them to grasp it. 

"Well, it's been interesting talking to you," Crowley said, finally rousing himself from that strange fog in his mind which had been desperately trying to drag him centuries into the past. 

Ezra blinked, looking at him as if surprised to find himself still in the room. "Ah, thank you," he said, fiddling with his hands slightly and shooting him a shy smile. "You've been most kind, listening to me ramble on."

"Don't mention it," he said, his words warming his heart. He glanced at the exit to the exhibit, but his feet refused to lift themselves from the ground. He couldn't leave, not yet. He looked back at Ezra, who had also made no attempt to walk away. He lingered expectantly, a flicker of hope in his crystal-blue eyes as Crowley turned back to him. "It's been fun, actually. Don't suppose I could, um..."

"Yes?" Ezra prompted, rocking on the balls of his feet slightly, silently egging him on. _Ask me, ask me,_ he thought desperately, as if Crowley might somehow hear him. _I'll say yes._

"Tempt you to a spot of lunch?" Crowley finished hopefully, watching his expression from behind his sunglasses with a hint of nervousness.

Ezra gave a happy wiggle. "Temptation accomplished," he said gleefully, knowing deep, deep down that someone very important had finally returned to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and they were SOULMATES  
> (oh my god they were soulmates)
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this conclusion to the story! It’s been a great experience to write and I’ve loved seeing the positive responses in the comments.   
> (PS, if you reread chapter 1, there are even some sections that hint that their “first“ meeting in the villa wasn’t the first time either, much like the meeting in the museum... they’re old souls guys, but always in love <3)


End file.
